


never want for more.

by ascxndent



Category: Godzilla (2014), Godzilla - All Media Types
Genre: Alan Has A God Complex, Grief, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Post-KOTM, Rodorah Babies, San (Kevin) is Not Having a Good Time, Torture, scientific experiments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-06-24 07:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19718935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascxndent/pseuds/ascxndent
Summary: San is alone, utterly alone. At the mercy of these putrid humans who poke and prod at him with their primitive tools, especially the one who likes to stare him down with eyes beaming with arrogance. He wants his brothers to regenerate faster, to protect him. He wants Rodan, a traitor or not. He wants to go home, wherever or whatever that is.Or: Alan Jonah has malicious intentions with his greatest prize, his secret weapon post-KOTM.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy this absolute clusterfuck of a mess which is more or less gonna be a journey of me crying about a big ass dragon, his stupid ass firebird bf, and the eventual babies that i promise are coming. for now, i am doing the unthinkable. torturing kevin.

_ tremor on my heaven son _ _  
_ _ tares above my kingdom come _

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He cannot recall a time where he was ever so utterly alone like this.

No, because to be alone by these means -- separated, the sole survivor -- was unnatural. For he was not the alpha, he wasn’t even the designated second in command in the event something ever happened to the brother who maintained order. That prospect did not necessarily sadden him. Nor did the one in which, truth be told, his role was nothing more than a dignified sacrifice if needbe. After all, the cruel jests of his brothers echoed within his mind,  _ it would not be a waste of intelligence in the battlefield.  _

This was wrong, this was all so utterly wrong. He was not meant to remain in place awhile his brothers were felled in battle by that mere sludge lizard and that insect. It should not have been him, charged with the responsibility of ensuring proper resurrection of their entire being. How did this all come to be? How is it that he is the one who remains, the one who endured?

And then, a moment of unexplainable clarity. Bits and pieces, mere images at best, return to his memory. 

None of them had survived.

A tense silence, followed by the shivering of their body.  _ His,  _ more appropriately, if only for the given moment. This was not the body that survived the battle of the kings. It had been reduced to smoldering ashes, the last clear memory of that conflict was being reduced to oblivion. There had been a wave, a rush -- blindingly bright colors of red and orange hues -- and a thunderous wave paired with the ghostly echoes of the insect queen’s warcry.

And then nothing. Until now, with this revival. But this was more than mere resurrection, this was reformation of an entire body. It was about, quite literally, starting over from scratch. Had such a thing ever even been done before? It’s difficult to recall, there hasn’t ever been a defeat as tremendous and humiliating as this. 

The only other situation that was comparable to the defeat was where he was now: at the mercy of these putrid  _ humans.  _

Here he lay, the one known as San -- the one among the many, the third in a set of three but a  _ king  _ in his own rights just as his brothers were -- bound and enslaved. Trapped once more in a suffocatingly small enclosure, this time one of steel as opposed to ice. At least, that was as much as his vision could decipher. See, these humans had thought themselves clever. Prior to regaining consciousness, they restrained him. They kept him bound, incapable of any free movements whatsoever. 

It would not contain him forever, this he knew. And he wondered, amidst his hazy stare with glossy eyes, if they knew this as well. Here he lay, weakened and weary only for now. But not for long. That was a promise. Yes, soon he, and his brothers, united once more as the Golden Demise would reign terror once more. They would come back: better, stronger, smarter. With insatiable bloodlust and become an indomitable force. All would yield, all would bow. 

Such bold words, such grandiose dreams for a pitiful creature as he, right now.

At best, he is a head with the beginning formations of a torso. Organs are currently in the process of regenerating, vulnerable and without the golden armor of dermis. There is no wingspan either, the bones have yet to appear. He knows this, all of this, because he is unfortunately very much aware of every vivid detail in this regeneration process. His body and mind are hyper fixated, never before having had to devote such an energy and effort like this. Normally, regeneration is such a short and tedious task. It should not take hours, days.

No, not regeneration. This was  _ rebirth _ . A grueling procedure with one starting over completely from scratch with only one mind unconsciously coordinating the entire means.

The agony is intensified by human intervention: they poke and prod at him with their sharpened primitive tools. They have plucked newly grown scales before they can settle properly for examination, meaning he must start all over in that specific region. They draw blood and other bodily fluids often. His brothers would laugh if they were here to bear witness to that. As if these inferior beings and their miniature brains were capable of fully understanding their anatomy. Perhaps they are jealous and are searching for a means to replicate their magnificence. It would not be the first time they have done this. They envied the creatures who mastered the sky, so they welded together pathetic imitations of winged steel to mimic beings like Rodan--

_ Rodan.  _ That name has not been thought of in quite some time. A series of emotions rush forth in unrelenting waves, one after the other. There comes familiarity, nostalgia. Amusement by some means because of the comparison. It quickly dissolves into sorrow, a pathetic longing. Where was the chosen companion? Their second-in-command ever at their side ready to heed to every beck and call? His wounded cries had echoed across the battlefield, but he had not perished. Why had he forsaken them? Why had he willingly allowed all of this to happen, letting this weak king desecrate them? With every question the grief begins to disintegrate. Rage quickly takes its place; rage, hatred, disgust. That name and the memories associated with that lowly being are now associated with rejection and repulsion. 

But even now those words and the hatred within them are hollowed, laced with ache. Surely now even a traitor’s face would be a welcoming sight. 

Anyone, anything as opposed to being utterly alone like this. 

San can feel his lips pull back, a strange sound dies in his throat. His jaw would not have been able to open up enough to produce the sound anyhow. It is indescribable how utterly humiliating it is that the humans have constructed a customized muzzle specifically for his mouth; lest they lose limbs when coming near him. 

He wants nothing more than to call out, to weep daresay. He refrains. Words of torment are drawn to mind, the motivation to cancelling the action. His brothers have called him a runt, a weakling. They would do so right now if they were here as well. They would shame him for displaying any sort of emotional weakness whatsoever. Perhaps they would hiss and nip, whispering commands to lie in wait. If they were here, there would be continuous reassurance and planning. _If they were here_.

But they are not, they will not be here for some time. Perhaps the humans intend to not let them return at all. And no one else is coming, even if he were capable of giving in and sending out a distress call.

He is utterly and entirely _alone_.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Try as he may, San is unfortunately not his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hggdglhk holy crap i am so ecstatic with all the quick feedback!!! you guys are amazing. i can honestly say this is probably the fastest a fic of mine has ever gotten so many hits for a first post. 
> 
> also, fun side note i noticed that is def relevant to this chapter and forthcoming ones: anyone else besides me notice -- it's a quick blink and you miss it moment -- when burning goji fires for the second time, ichi's head is backed away while san and ni are destroyed. almost as if, accidentally or not, he sacrificed his own brothers to buy himself a few seconds of time. (:

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Alan Jonah did not consider himself a man of many virtues, but he would confidently list patience as being among them.

An impatient man would not have the right headspace nor the capability to achieve what he has done. Decades worth of assembling the right men and women into his cause; for every one man joined there were a thousand against him. All the time spent calculating locations and taking into account hypothetical scenarios when reviewing plans would not be accomplished tasks by an impatient man. 

Fond memories come far and few from a man of his past with nothing but bloodshed and the horrors of war to show for. But there exists one with his father sitting him down and sharing him a critical lesson: patience itself was bitter, but the fruit it bore would be sweet.

From where he stands at this viewpoint looking down upon the tied beast in his possessions, he would have to agree.

This was  _ unimaginably  _ sweet. 

This was rightfully deserved too for that matter. It had only cost him a few thousand dollars, for the fisherman’s asking price was surprisingly humble. Only needed enough to set him and his family up well, now that commercial fishing -- or any means involving the coast of Isla de Mara -- were forever ruined thanks to the military’s usage of the oxygen destroyer. Unbeknownst to the seller it was for the best that greed had not bested him in this deal. The alternative would have been tedious and far bloodier, but a necessity nonetheless. 

The cost had been next to nothing in all reality. Imagine that -- after a series of disappointments following the betrayal of his colleague Dr. Russell -- to have a reparation from fate itself be practically handed over to him.

“Magnificent.” he breathed, eyes peering through the glass pane. Others would disagree with the notion in silence perhaps. The creature in their possession paled miserably compared to the form of its prime. But Alan only saw limitless potential, an opportunity to study the godly being from the inside out as it meticulously healed itself. That was an advantage in itself, to be able to understand the godly alien when all others could not.

To  _ control  _ it was another thing: impossible deemed by some. But if Alan was one for heeding the warning odds, he would not be where he was today. 

“Indeed,” came a voice of agreement. It belonged to Dr. Artyom Orlov, the recently assigned head of Alan’s research team. He was younger than his superior, pale and rather plain looking. The doctor made his way to stand beside his boss with a set of various notes in his clutch, fingers drumming idly on them. “The ability to replicate its entire body with nothing but a functioning brain and a few surviving fragments of spinal neurons. It is an entirely unconscious, innate process. Monster X can practically multitask throughout this entire process.”

Alan’s eyebrows shot up at that last statement. Curiosity urged him closer to the glass, closer to the sight down below of the subdued creature. Without even so much as sparing a glance towards the other man, he spoke; “Really?”

Dr. Orlov gave an affirmative nod. “It is entirely aware of where it is and what is going on. I think it preoccupies itself with observing us, and is capable of memory and recognizing faces even with half of a functioning nervous system.”

A pause followed. It was as if Alan could somehow sense the younger man’s hesitancy, which was what prompted him to turn towards him. “Go on,” he urged sternly.

“It’s just… I don’t think he  _ likes  _ certain men. Anyone who has been tasked with drawing blood before reports that his demeanor changes even before the needle is in sight. If I may, some of them are rather uncomfortable--”

“I did not make this purchase so that we could  _ befriend  _ it, Dr. Orlov. Frankly, I don’t care if it comes to hold a grudge against me. In time, we will control it and that will be the end of it.” Alan had interrupted abruptly, disdain made very clear in his features. It was understandable to be afraid of Monster X beforehand, when it was a nightmarish triad capable of reigning hellish storms and surging electricity through its bloodstream. But in this state when it was merely one immobile head struggling to re-develop its entire organ system, restrained by every possible means possible anyways? How pathetic.

Patience, he reminded himself, was not just applicable to his goals. It was directed towards the handling of his team as well. With Dr. Russell’s descent -- and apparent death, or so he had last heard -- he could not afford to lose anymore valuable minds. Especially not when his ambitions this time went as far as the hopes of replicating  _ and  _ weaponizing a new version of the ORCA machine. 

Alan closed his eyes, resigning to a calmer state. “... But if it bothers your men that badly, sedate the creature then. And if you’ve already been doing so, up the dosages then. I trust you’ll take caution with this: I want it lethargic, not an opioid addict.” 

Dr. Orlov seemed somewhat pleased by the sudden change of heart. He backed away slowly, quietly mumbling, “Yes, sir.”

.

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Based on the indecipherable amount of time that had passed, San calculated that there were now approximately several organ systems in development. None of them were close to being finished. Piece by piece, his body was like a confused array of puzzle pieces attempting to match itself back up. 

It was a tense and exhausting process. The only means of protection which the rest of his undeveloped body had was an easily penetrable membrane. One which these putrid nuisances often found some childish need to prod at it, sampling it in the hopes to discovering secrets. As if the answers to ancient riddles could be found beneath his skin. He eagerly awaited those looks of disappointment when they would find none. At least, not with their lacking technology. 

The tools they used were sterilized and sanitized to the greatest possible degree. Not that the pathogens of this planet could harm him anyways, but he would have credited them as being clever if they had tried subtle biological warfare to permanently kill him. 

Sharpened teeth grit, restrained jaw grinding down further to cope with the pain. The floor beneath was drenched in blood and other bodily fluids; surely no one had ever expected this to be a clean process. But must it be so agonizingly slow as well? The torso was not even halfway formed. There were so many accessible vulnerabilities out in the open. 

He could imagine his brothers scowling at him.  _ You idiot!,  _ perhaps they would say. He envisioned their disdain, perhaps Ichi would reprimand him with a nip at his horns.  _ Without armor and without wings, doing nothing but repairing soft flesh. Would you like to spell our weaknesses in their tongue while you’re at it?  _

San shuddered in reaction from the imaginative conversation. He could imagine himself shriveling back, shrinking beneath their scrutinizing stares. It would not be the first time that the weight of fault was shifted entirely to him. But this was different, this was exceptional: it wasn’t like he was entirely, consciously in control of this process. It was based on instinct. As far as he could tell, his body was separated from his mind. 

What was he  _ supposed  _ to do anyhow? Again, the task had never befallen him before. He was not the one who was supposed to take charge. He was not supposed to be without his brothers and their guidance, not for this long. 

_ Ichi had,  _ he remembered.  _ Ichi had fended for himself without either of us.  _ A grievous battle from thousands upon thousands of years ago against their greatest rival had cost not one, but two heads because of foolish mistakes made in the heat of the moment. But Ichi was fearless and quick-thinking. He had enabled his resources and surroundings to create a distraction and flee temporarily. He generated his energy to double the efforts of resurrecting both brothers simultaneously, the most exhausting effort their body had undergone at that time. The battle itself was not one of their brightest moments but there was something admirable to be taken into account with Ichi’s actions. 

He was the indisputable alpha for a reason: the most ambitious and calculating, the most level-headed and able to counteract any blow. He relied on logic as opposed to emotion. Fear was a seemingly nonexistent trait with him--

(A disturbing memory arises from their last battle; Ichi’s neck backing away, unintentionally pressing his brothers forward to take the brunt of that fatal wave coming towards them.  _ Wrong.  _ San denies it, all of it.  _ Untrue. Ichi would never.  _ It must be a confused, haphazard thought meddled from the trauma.)

Something draws him from this ponderous thoughts. The slow, soft continuous pattern of a beat. San strains himself somewhat, unnerved suddenly. What if that is the beginning of that vile machine those humans had constructed earlier? The one with the artificial calls to signal, or worse, give bothersome headaches. There shouldn’t be a need for it anyhow when he is in this subdued state. The pattern intensifies but the message is incoherent. He cannot understand what it is attempting to convey, perhaps their unimpressive machine is malfunctioning once more. Or is it building up towards the most painful inducing headache yet… faster and faster, the beat seems to race until--

_ Oh. _

How embarrassing it is for him to realize it was nothing more than the sound of a beating heart.

There was a heart -- his and his alone to be precise -- working hard at pumping to the blood vessels still under construction. Most days it was erratic, severely overworked from the taxing labor of cooperating with an incomplete body. At this moment it had slowed to a lull because of something the humans had injected into him earlier at the base of his neck. Even in this increasingly weakening state of now, little reminders such as that  _ infuriated  _ him. How dare they. Whatever had been given to him was as good as poison. It was corrupting him, sabotaging his efforts to restore himself fully. 

The folly of mankind, trying to stop what was inevitable. Even in his most dour of moods, he supposed that Ni would have been humored by this. The little pests were that deathly afraid of them even in this ruined state, that they were willing to throw anything and everything at them from finishing the process. 

To think, if Ni were in his place he would have given the pests such a fright. Never one for being approachable, he was perhaps the least socially graceful. The lacking skill would have been useful in a scenario such as this. Yes, Ni emanated a fear of his own which was separate from that which made them King Ghidorah. From the curled sneer of his lips to the narrowing of golden eyes, he mastered the arts of instilling fear into any and all prey. With Ni there would have been a need, no, a greater want to restrain him further. All precautions taken to ensure that the humans who came and went like cockroaches could breathe easier in his presence. 

It dawned on San from these comparisons, that perhaps the humans were not all that frightened of himself to begin with. A troublesome thought indeed, enough to shake his confidence for a split second. He shook it away, justifying himself.

_ I am third in a set of three, but a king I am no less.  _ he recited feverishly to himself, the weight of his eyelids growing heavier.  _ I am the Death Song of Three Storms.  _

Weariness threatens to consume him whole. In spite of his best efforts to resist, it becomes next to impossible to ignore. He will be unguarded, unaware in a state of rest. And as of now, given where he is, that is something he cannot afford to be. Lest the humans decide to harvest whole body parts from him, or perhaps pluck his teeth. It will take more than steel itself to do that, but this particular set of humans are quite ambitious. 

_ I am the Golden Demise,  _ he reminds himself. But his thoughts are unsteady. It is not persuasive in the slightest to anyone, even himself. Yet he carries on anyways.  _ Attempt to maim me and I will tear you to pieces.  _

A lone human approaches the platform. He is different, unlike the men in the white coats and their primitive tools. He carries great stride in his walk, an astounding confidence that comes surprising for someone so small. It reminds him of scavengers beaming down on a prized meal of a greater foe, as if they did all the work in killing it themselves. This human has only collected the remnants of another’s destructive work, but even then should consider himself lucky to be standing in  _ his  _ magnificent presence. 

There is a scent to this human -- whom San can see is pale and riddled in wrinkles (humans have such embarrassingly short lifespans and age horribly throughout the entire process) with such an utterly grim appearance -- as he comes closer. In truth, every human has their own unique scent so long as one is willing to pay attention. Bored and without much of a choice otherwise, San has begun to take note of some of them. The reoccuring ones reek with fear and perverse curiosity, their limited intelligence quite literally an odor oozing from their sweat glands. 

This one, this one is different. He is unfazed and lacks the timid smell of the others. Some of the men feign bravery on their faces but the scent is what gives them away. Not this one, who is all rigid and grim. There is something off.

This one is startling, he reeks of  _ maliciousness.  _

San finds himself shivering before he can stop himself. It is not a common scent attached to these humans. Rather, it is one he would associate with  _ himself.  _

How humiliating. How utterly humiliating that in these circumstances the tables have turned. That he is the subdued prey and this one meager human a poor imitation of a predator staring down upon him. 

If he were Ni, he supposes he would let off a warning growl. No restraints around the mouth could mute the sound however gargled it may come across. Ni would never let someone approach him outright. 

But he cannot build the strength nor the courage to do so. The sound never even makes it to his throat. It sits, weighted in his hollow cavity that once was a chest. 

If he were Ichi, well… he does not know, in all honesty, what his eldest brother would do. He is not clever nor cunning like him though try as he may. His best guess is he would’ve devoted all his time since awakening assessing his environment and search for the best escape routes. Multiple plans would have been developed by now and on the ready.

But his mind is blank, overwhelmed by immense exhaustion. He does not think himself capable of thinking up anything impressive anyhow. If he were to try, he supposes it would come across as a laughable effort even by these pests. 

Instead, he steadies himself awake in these last few moments as the distance between the two are sealed. Standing before him is a man who thinks himself Alpha, no, god-like. 

_ I am King Ghidorah,  _ San silently recites.  _ And you cannot frighten me.  _

But those are hollow, unconvincing words from such a hollow, pitiful being.

Try as he may, he is  _ not  _ his brothers.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> San dreams; dreams of before, of what could have been, and what never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can already hear the booing from you guys over this chapter.
> 
> sidenote: everyone who makes rodorah babies is honestly doing a service to god. i will be joining that boat soon, as one of my tags obviously ensues. but until then, suffering.

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He is whole once more; whole and flight bound, magnificent wings parting the heavens themselves and the sunlight glittering against golden scales. 

San is dreaming, and he knows this. Each time he is forcibly given one of those poisonous concoctions, a strange exhaustion overtakes him. Time has become indecipherable to him because of this. It seems the humans would rather force him into this state of slumber as often as they can. His best guess to their intent is whatever means necessary in hopes of delaying the regeneration process as best as they can; by keeping him in a drowsy haze, oblivious and incoherent, mayhaps they think his mind will make an error in communication with his body and ruin something. 

Whatever grants them peace, he supposes. Whether it be these asinine theories and maddening, time-wasting tricks. 

He does not care;  _ this  _ grants him peace he has not felt for quite some time. None of these bothersome pests exist in this world. There is no sight of them nor the faintest stench. Perhaps this is a world where their wrathful mayhem was successful from the start and they were eradicated immediately. It would certainly explain the lack of crowds, the immense freedom of this false world.

Here he is free to take plight, for the skies are endless and the weather gentle. There are no weights to hold him down, no restraints on his body. He is whole and handsome once more and  _ oh,  _ how he has missed this. Sore muscles ache from lack of use but it will leave him soon. 

His gaze is to the clouded sky. His heart hammers with anticipation; with every beat, with every drop of his wings there will come the manipulated destruction. He will revel with the massive thunderous storm clouds and dance with the wicked shards of lightning across the sky. He has missed this so terribly so. The freedom, the weightlessness, the scent of crisp air.

Something pulls him from his gaze forcibly. The neurons of his body are slow to react to what is perceived pain at first, perhaps the result of a strangely beneficial adaptation? Daggers sink into the toughened hide of skin at his neck, tugging at him. 

He whips around, teeth bared and prepared to lash right back at the foe. But he makes no such move. He freezes in his place.

_ Ichi.  _

The eldest brother, merely doing his duty in keeping his little brother in line. The Alpha, keeping his subordinate focused. San was always prone to distractions, after all. And the duties of an elder brother are never at rest now, are they? So it comes across surprising to him, seeing his youngest rebelliously lash out.

_ Don’t you snarl at me,  _ Ichi reprimanded, ever stern and eyes narrowing.  _ I am not to blame for your empty head and its airheaded daydreams. I am the only means of keeping you in line- _

_ Ichi!  _ San was beside himself, overcome with emotion. His neck had lurched forward, nuzzling against the side of his brother’s head. He swore he heard laughter coming from a distance, and a single eye opened to notice Ni cackling in disbelief. Laughter was always his coping mechanism when uncomfortable. Whether it be over uncertainty with how to respond to the tempers of his other brothers or the fear of being outmatched by a foe; haughty, arrogant laughter that had a rather melodious sound to it was always heard from him. 

It was a welcomed sound for San, who made the attempt at affection for his other brother as well. But Ni had the time to prepare and backed away slightly, with Ichi being left to intervene on behalf of both of them. 

_ Right…  _ he would leave it at that, unwilling to discuss what had just occurred. Here was San, acting like an absolute hatchling with the sudden enthusiastic leaps of affection. That wasn’t his character even if he was always the most difficult and unpredictable of the three. Neither Ichi or Ni would return his affections, but it was not to be scolded either. 

And San was content with that, simply leaving it be. There were some matters meant to be left unsaid. He did not care anyways. Here they are once more, together. Reunited, a means that was always inevitable.  _ Whole.  _ A rather weighty feeling sank into the pit of his belly. With his brothers there was a sense of invincibility because of their combined forces.

Better yet, a sense of fearlessness. 

No primitive little beings would ever come near the three of them again and live to tell the tale. No lumbering usurpers, no shrieking insects, no challengers of any force. 

Their wings snapped, unfurled open. Gleaming, golden, beautiful. No tears or damage to hinder flight. They took flight in mere seconds, free to go as they please.

This is not the first time San has had this dream.

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(He wonders, sometimes, if this is a memory as opposed to a dream. He has been alive for so long, he cannot even say how old he is. Perhaps it happened. Perhaps there was a time where he was affectionate to his brothers without consequence.)

.

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That dream is among the most common ones. A desire for flight, for freedom. A longing for his brothers, who still had yet to make any form of an appearance in this resurrection process. 

It seems that limbs are prioritized over siblings.

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The human concoctions change sometimes. 

There are times where nausea is so vicious to his weakened body. A digestive system has only  _ just  _ finished -- it would not be wise to provoke him -- the acidity of his vomit could do wonders to such simple flesh. Were it not for the restraint on his jaws, what a wicked idea it would be… to watch some of those shivering little milksops melt to bones and then nothingness. 

When he is nauseous, his dreams are meddled with confusing imagery. Truth be told, he could not even proclaim them as nightmares. Just… odd. There was one where he never reformed properly, that regenerative process had done the bare minimum of only restoring himself improperly: there he was lain, a limbless and pathetic thing akin to a snake. As weak as a hatchling and as worthless as a blind, crippled creature that lives only by nature’s pity. Then there were ones where too many heads were restored, all amplified with the aggression and hostility of his brothers tenfold. One, two, ten. Far too many to count, all of them sneering.

_ Unworthy,  _ they all chant. The multitude of heads surround him in all different angles as they continue their taunt.  _ Unworthy. Unworthy. Unworthy.  _

He wants to argue, wants to bite back. But even if he could speak, it would be deafened by the sound of their ferocious roars. He shakes his head in denial, shrinking further into himself and drowning under their scrutiny. 

.

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Sometimes, he dreams of being bathed by fire. He is engulfed wholly as the flames lick through flesh and bone; brilliant and beautiful scales melt into nothingness and the only sound heard is the shrieks of his brothers.

(“His vitals are rising,” Dr. Orlov reports, perturbed. It is difficult to set a standard for a unique Titan that was not even of this world, let alone half of a mangled living body of said Titan. But the heart rate is rising -- the transparent membrane allows them to literally witness blood vessels constricting -- and hydra stirs with little effort. Perhaps that is the unnerving aspect, how little strength it uses to shake beneath the restraints.)

Sometimes the scenery and scenario change in those dreams. Sometimes he is crushed beneath the lumbering weight of the usurper. Other times he is torn apart by daggered teeth. San was taught by his brothers to never beg, under any circumstances. To never yield. That defeat in itself was far more humiliating, a far greater suffering than any death. This begs otherwise. A facade for a determined resolve can only last so long as wings are torn and tattered, neck thrashed and bleeding out. 

(“-- reminds me of my dog, Bear.” chimes one of the armored men offhandedly. “He twitches in his sleep, starts yelpin’ and cryin’ if he’s having a nightmare.” A bemused smile creeps on his features while staring at the sight. “Look at this guy: he ain’t what he used to be. Goes from fuckin’ up D.C to cryin’ over a bad dream.”)

Sometimes, sometimes his dreams are different. He wishes they had never set foot on this cerulean planet. Wishes they had never challenged the weak king, never sought for the title to begin with. Wishes they never even wandered to this system to begin with; they should have fled it at the first opportunity after being awoken from the ice. 

It’s such a cowardly wish, belonging to fools and hapless infants. San hates himself further for even thinking of them in the first place. Nothing more than a waste of time, as compared to his brothers who would be thinking and plotting and doing  _ something.  _ Anything, anything aside from lying in wait a pathetic sight for all to see.

(Alan makes no comment; frost blue eyes are narrowed deep in thought. His expression hard and grim as ever even when contemplating. He turns to Dr. Orlov; “Have your men study the brainwave patterns. They may be of use for Project Hydra.”)

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Sometimes, San dreams of Rodan.

They are the most pleasant dreams but San loathes them the most. At least, that is what he supposes he should do. Is that what Ni and Ichi would want him to react? Their chosen companion  _ abandoned  _ them. Chose allegiance to another king. Has made no effort to find him, to track him down. Does he truly think him as good as dead? Is he that indifferent? Or perhaps he is glad to have been freed from their presence.

Fine, let him be then. Let him choose poorly and pay the price for that idiocy later. He would rue that decision. And what did any of them care anyhow? The little firebird did not hold his own against the foe’s ferocious queen. There would have been no use for him. Surely, when reshaping this world into their own preference, they would have inevitably destroyed him in the process. Attachment was pointless then. It was all a means to an end. All of it had been temporary, every bit of it. 

Stupid little firebird. Arrogant and reckless and charging towards them headfirst without a second thought. They should have plucked him from the sea which they dropped him in and torn him to pieces then and there. A small meal that would have burned their palates briefly, but saving them trouble all the worthwhile. Stupid little firebird. Elegant wings bowing before them willingly, long before all the others heeded their call.  _ My Alpha,  _ he had chirred. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How embarrassing, to simply heed like that and throw away dignity. 

Little firebird, emanating warmth. Embers aglow from copper wings. Flying beside them, ever loyal. A king by his own right, of the skies. Could cut the skies with such swift grace, tumultuous wind left behind and raining fire on all down below. The people of this world feared him, they did not revere him as they did for the insect queen. The titans of this order cared little for him, few respected him. Poor little firebird, the misfit. Outcasted and underestimated. What delicious irony to be chosen by the Golden Demise, what hell they had stirred together. 

_ Little firebird,  _ a nickname deemed by San alone. The very same San who was the most outwardly and openly affectionate. Who was unafraid of being nipped or lectured at for nuzzling his beak or wanting to drape a wing over him. 

(As if he could not catch on to the subtle affection from either brother; as if Ni’s possessiveness and jealousy, as if Ichi’s heightened sense of protectiveness towards their dear little pet was mere coincidence. They shared neither hearts nor minds. But San knew them well, knew them better than anyone or anything.)

Sometimes, he dreams of taking flight once more but with Rodan at their side. They are free, free to go wherever they please. They destroy cities welded of steel and structures of metal as though it is mere child’s play. When not craving chaos, sometimes there is the warmth of the caldera. Rodan was particularly attached to his nest and apparently unwilling to leave it permanently for another under any circumstances. The word  _ home  _ existed in the language of hydras yet it felt foreign on San’s tongue. 

There had never been such a place beforehand. There could never be, or so the three brothers had reasoned. Because they were the bringers of ruination, all which they touched was inevitably destroyed. There was no place for beings of them. They were meant to relish in chaos and flee to another system to satisfy boredom. 

How strange, how strange it had seemed when the little firebird invited them so willingly to his home. Or surrendered it, rather. No. Even that term did not feel right. If he had surrendered it then he would have never wanted to sleep in it again; this was different. A willingness to share it. An odd, preposterous offer. 

Neither he nor his brothers had even found the time to contemplate it in the mere days spent together. Altogether they avoided the thought. It confused them. It triggered unfamiliar sensations which left them uncomfortable. 

_ Home.  _

He tries to envision it but cannot. And so the offer reappears to him in these dreams every time. And he is incapable of answering every time.

_ We could stay here for a hundred thousand years,  _ Rodan says to him in his dreams; hard, blazing eyes are alight with hopefulness.  _ No one would ever bother us. _

(A hundred thousand years is not a long time, in truth. A mere blink to some, to the likes of them. But for this cerulean planet, it can reshape itself entirely in such little time like that, an admittedly impressive feature.) 

There is an ache gnawing at San, visceral and surreal. It is a pain of reality surpassing into his dreams. There is a tightening in his throat. For once, for just this once he seems to have reached an answer. But he is choking on the words and making his firebird wait as always with great disappointment. 

_ Stay stay stay.  _ The word echoes with illustrious temptation. To be there, healing in seclusion with nothing but the warmth of the caldera to bask in. Or even the little firebird’s body. San wants it, painfully so. He wants it more than any insatiable desire he or any of his brothers have ever experienced. 

But he is ripped from that dream.

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.

He startles himself awake, devastated and trapped in seclusion once more.

San is beside himself and swallowing down his courage. To hell with woe, with the fear of disappointing his brothers. There will be no brothers to be disappointed if he is not allowed to heal properly. He wants his brothers to regenerate faster, to protect him from this nightmare he has been forced to endure. He wants Rodan, traitor or not.

He wants to go  _ home _ , wherever or whatever that is.

And so, he fights against the grips of the muzzle. He cannot pry it apart. Not enough strength has been recovered. But the distance he is able to make with all his might is enough. He gives in, and all at once the laboratory base begins to shake from the weight and tremor of voice alone.

A distress call.

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.

Alan had heard it even from the reasonable distance of his personal office. He had been studying recently obtained data from a device when the shriek sounded. To those in the facility, he imagines it must have been ear-splitting.

He smirks, satisfied now with the justification in ensuing the purchased militarized warehouse was utterly and entirely  _ soundproof  _ to the outside world.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Did you really think I intended to just set a mad animal free and reign hell on it's own choice?" his superior inquired, a jovial look in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another villainous update, apologies for it being so short. there's another one well on the way, one that i think you guys will like.
> 
> sidenote: anybody have any creative ideas as to a name for alan's organization? there's nothing specified, not even in the novels. and i'm getting kinda tired of writing "the organization" and i'm >< close to flat out calling it "team magneto was right; humans suck" gjkgfhjklfshjk

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Signs of the dreaded inevitable are beginning to show; a day will come when this warehouse facility will not be enough to contain the hydra Titan.

Dr. Orlov and all those stationed here share the same fear. It is not one of being discovered by the authorities, be it a government or Monarch themselves. Each and every man and woman recruited into the cause has sworn devoted loyalty and fearlessness to the risk-taking. Alan had rather blunt expectations: not only were brains needed, but ones equipped with  _ spines.  _ Anyone willing to sell themselves out in exchange for legal immunity was considered as useful as a dead man.

Rumor had it that as of now, anyone considering betrayal was to be fed to the Titan; an appropriate and befitting fate, if Orlov thought so himself. Even if it would be a pain trying to figure out a comprehensive plan on removing the restraints without the beast seizing it as an opportunity to rebel.

Even if Monarch had discovered their whereabouts, what then? Even in the weakened, excruciatingly slow healing state it was left in, Monster X could not be killed by any man made weaponry. Furthermore, Monarch couldn’t just summon Titanus Gojira to do their every beck and whim. The natural order had declared him king; surely there were other far more pressing matters to attend to as opposed to adhering the artificial calls from humanity. Or so, Orlov and a few others had theorized. Whatever the case may be, at the given moment Monarch did not have Godzilla at their immediate aid. The threat they posed was purely down to man itself.

And it was no secret that Alan Jonah and the likes associated to his cause feared no man.

No, the fear which Orlov and others felt was directed towards the  _ creature  _ itself. There existed thousands of available archival footage of the destruction and turmoil it caused in its prime; how it lay waste to Washington D.C. to the point of annihilation. News reports frequently insisted that the relocation of the capital was temporary, but everyone held their doubts. Orlov personally had doubts about D.C. ever becoming habitable again, instead envisioning a modern day Pripyat flourishing with greenery atop surviving buildings. 

Orlov had surveyed the footage countless times; witnessing Ghidorah’s rampage alongside it’s… beta? Submissive second-in-command?  _ Mate?  _ (There was ongoing conflict in regards to that subject and what to make of Titanus Rodan.) All of that had been done purely by choice, by some means of amusement. Arguably, there was no reasoning to begin with. It lay waste to that land simply because it could, acting on reputation as the embodiment of death and destruction.

It only further begged the question, then: Just what would a fully-restored and freed Ghidorah do the day it broke free onto this warehouse that had treated it like a prisoner?

Orlov was convinced. This creature hated them, all of them. The looks which it gave them when it was willing to even look at them -- as though the site of humans up-close were too repulsive for it to stomach most times -- reminded him of some of the test animals in laboratory back from his internship days. Their eyes retained a hard, knowing look. Faces of those who sliced them open or forced them to try a product were forever ingrained in memory. 

From all the times spent examining the translucent membrane sac and developing organs, Orlov reckoned the creature knew him well. 

He felt compelled to share his most recent thoughts with Alan. God knows why. The intent could have been mistaken for questioning his leadership, and that could have gone to an unfortunate route for himself. 

However, that did not seem to be the case this time.

“People often underestimate animals,” Alan had remarked idly, hands drawn behind his back. “One of humanity’s greatest fears and vice is the inability to recognize a superior being. Our arrogance blinds us from the truth, and only worsens the consequences.”

_ That  _ had not been the response which Orlov anticipated. Last time they had a similar conversation about this -- in regards to the department’s fear of the Titan -- Alan had snapped at him. Then given a dismissive huff and the order to drug it whenever they felt too nervous to approach it. That had settled it for some, for a time. Except there had been an emphasis on using tranquilizers  _ sparingly  _ which had gone amiss with others. Abuse of it had rendered the creature nauseous, upsetting the balance of already fragile vitals. The last thing they needed was to  _ kill it _ by induced respiratory arrest. Orders had changed from there on out. No one was authorized to induce anything to the creature without Orlov’s approval himself. 

Perhaps things had changed from Alan’s perspective as well. Enough time had passed for his organization to relax to some extent, with Monarch somewhat busying themselves with stabilizing the world itself. More importantly, the Titan itself had stabilized. At least, as well as one could get for a being with it’s organs practically out on display like a science classroom demonstration. The beginning had foretold a different tale, and Alan had been forewarned since the purchase about the minimal chances of survival it had. Anything could go awry and then it all would have been for nothing. 

News which would make anyone understandably tense. 

“That-” Alan pointed towards the Titan beyond the walls of laminated glass, and Orlov’s head snapped up after having lost himself in his thoughts. “-- right there is the bringer of a new world order. Some would call it the end of a natural balance and others with weakened stomachs would call me mad for insinuating this to begin with.”

That last line obviously being a direct jab towards the late Dr. Russell, or so Orlov imagined. Wasn’t a difficult guess, based on the temporary change of expression. There was a contained rage in Alan’s face which seeped out only in small bits here and there. This had been one of those moments, one which Orlov unconsciously found himself taking a step back. 

“But I see it is a  _ necessity _ . There is no redemption for our species as a whole, and there is no undoing the damage already done onto this world. And if we based every decision on emotion, then no one and no thing on this planet will survive. Think of it as a clean slate; an opportunity to start over entirely.” 

There were no objections on Orlov’s end. But these were words he had heard before, albeit stated differently. This was more or less the organization’s agenda itself summarized briefly. 

“But sir,” the scientist began. His eyes were faraway, drawn to the sight of what looked like the beginning formation of a proper dermis.  _ And so it begins,  _ he thought grimly. “I thought that Ghidorah’s intent was to terraform to an extreme degree, and that none of us would be capable of surviving the process.”

Alan seemed to take note of the exact same observation. The restoration process of the internal organs was nearly complete. With the most vulnerable parts repaired, far more important objectives could be focused on. The return of proper limbs and thus, mobility. And then the completion with the other two adjoined heads.

There was the faintest hint of enthusiasm in his expression, contrasting that of Orlov’s unease.

“That is correct, so long as we  _ allow  _ him to reach that point.” 

Orlov was utterly lost. Dark brows furrowed, and he blinked. “Sir…?”

“Did you really think I intended to set a mad animal free and bring about the extinction to all life as we know it?” his boss inquired, an odd jovial look in his eyes. “An  _ invasive  _ one at that, who heeds to no order whatsoever. I said he is the bringer of a new world order, not the  _ leader.”  _

“A means to an end.” the scientist nodded, realization dawning. 

“I admit, in the beginning my intentions were dependent entirely on the Titans restoring the balance themselves. But seeing as we do not share the same  _ vision  _ on restoring this balance, I had to re-evaluate some aspects. Rest assured, the plan remains the same. But the means of accomplishing it have changed. If one wants something done properly, then they must do it themselves.” Alan explained, voice impassioned. He turned towards Orlov and the jovial look from before had disappeared entirely. No trace of it was to be found, it was now back to the usual stern stare. “I thought we were at an understanding, Dr. Orlov. What did you think the objections behind the project were?”

How could he have forgotten? A blush crept on palid features, and Orlov silently cursed himself. Odd as it seemed, he had a slight superiority complex. More often than not, he compared himself to other intellectual figures on both the team and in the respected science field. One such example for the longest time had been both Dr. Russells; it had only intensified since being chosen as head of the research field for the organization. The truth which he was not bold enough to say was  _ replacement,  _ because had things not gone awry with Emma Russell -- had emotions towards her nuisance of a daughter not bested her focus -- Alan would have never batted an eye towards him. Not to speak ill of the dead, but what a relief it had been when the confirmation reports came through with her death. There was no one left to rival his position, to potentially steal it all away from him -- the favoritism and position, the endless opportunities -- and sent him right back to the lower status of beforehand.

Stupid little mistakes such as forgetfulness could not be taken lightly though, as a cost to the higher ranking. There was a reason behind his treading of words and cautious approaches. Even now with Alan’s eyes trained on him, Orlov would not dare risk stuttering over words.

“I’ll be honest, sir. I assumed it was only for the recovery process -- to ensure he didn’t make any attempts to break free from restraints and to keep him calm; a substitute for having to constantly drug him.” Yes, sometimes honesty was the best approach. A wise decision in this case, his superior’s eyes were no longer fixated so harshly on him. 

“An honest mistake it is, then.” Alan echoed the sentiment before turning back towards the Titan. His voice trailed off; “In that case then…”

Orlov had just begun to relax, stiff shoulders dropping. He nearly jumped, startled when seconds later his name was spoken once more.

“... begin the first stages of Project Hydra.” 

There was a strange enthusiasm dripping in his tone. Orlov could not help but share in the delighted prospects with a matching smile of his own.

“Yes, sir.”

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	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate, it seems, had other plans for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fINALLY... a chapter i am confident you guys will enjoy for the most part. 
> 
> unrelated side note: i can't help but keep overanalyzing the hypothetical lasting damage done to isla de mara from the oxygen destroyer. that environment has got to be utterly fucked, which is a domino effect of destroying a commercial fishermen economy in addition to millions of dollars in damage to the city itself. but still, the oxygen destroyer itself and all it's unknown frightening potential... it wouldn't surprise me if isla de mara (or it's coast, at least) end up being some kind of chernobyl 2.0

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The days were growing shorter, the nights longer; his patterns of flight, far and few as is, would lessen soon. Winter would arrive and with it the unforgiving chill capable of death to the vulnerable or weak sort. 

None of this mattered to Rodan; the warmth of the caldera could withstand any frigid force. And were it’s flames to die -- as other mountains before it had -- his own would not. Winter’s arrival and the brutalities with it never frightened him before.

Under normal circumstances, the timing of the changing season could be anticipated. This would be the case no longer. A tremendous force borne from the sea -- or perhaps it would be better phrased as created by the hands of mankind -- had devastated the balance of life on Isla de Mara in lasting manners. Aquatic life arose to the surface dead in massive numbers and they reeked of a bitter taste rendering them near inedible. The dead came in waves, one after the other in passing time. And then the humans fled altogether from the devastation, though this hardly bothered him. It was a welcomed peace; no little insects around to cry out in complaints when his midnight turbine devastated their homelands. Altogether it had become a lifeless realm. 

There were pro's to staying here, the silence being one such benefit. No other sounds but the heart of the volcano pumping continuously, spewing and churning lava. Those sounds were frankly a  _ lullaby  _ of sorts to him. The isolation was another mentionable plus; no one, not a single soul lurked. There was the occasional, strange metal contraception flying and buzzing about -- sometimes more than one, flocking in numbers akin to a pack -- and he used to make a sport out of taking them out of the sky. However, that quickly became boring and disappointing when it was discovered there was no fleshy prize lurking inside; not like the  _ last  _ winged contraception that were arrogant enough to challenge him in the skies. 

The cons were what had already been stated; with the island practically decimated, the former hunting grounds were rendered useless. He was forced to fly out farther than usual territories, searching beyond realms he was comfortable with. He did not fear confrontation -- a fighting urge always lurked within molten blood -- but it was the  _ shame  _ of being cornered by anyone at this point which he dreaded and for more reasons than one. It was no secret that beforehand Rodan had been something of an outcast, relatively ignored by the natural order and given little respect. The surge to power as  _ the False King's companion  _ was intoxicating, left him almost in a drunken state in the brief time he held such power. Oh, it had been invigorating. To be atop of the world like that… feared and revered, causing chaos freely wherever he -- or rather, his Alpha -- had wanted. And then, just like that, it had all been snatched from him.

And now, now it was no secret that Rodan had blackened his own name. A disgrace in the eyes of all, spared because… because… well, frankly, he still struggled to comprehend the reason as to why. Because the King was benevolent? Too worn from battle to be bothered with slaying yet another Kaiju when there were so few of them left now? It was an act of begrudging mercy, that much he knew. Proclaiming loyalty and being the first to bow certainly did not make amends for slaughtering his Queen. Rodan knew that if a chance at friendship existed, the size of it was likely miniscule. Every word spoken from him would be akin to treading on black ice. Forever would he be associated as part of the False King; the golden one's Beta, the chosen company.

_ His mate _ , some had deciphered. 

Temporary self exile to the brewing mountains in the west had probably been the greatest favor done for himself, having saved a semblance of face. Were it up to him perhaps he would have remained there in seclusion for forever; be left alone in bitter peace and having to heed the call only when necessary. Perhaps slumber for another few thousand years and awaken to a newly reshaped world with no one to remember his days of treachery, enabling another chance for himself. 

Fate planned other means for him. 

It had started with an imperative to find a nest. True, he already inhabited one now. But this calling urged him further, to return  _ home.  _ It was an incessant ache that kept him awake. With sleep rendered near impossible, exhaustion followed. Except that this weariness surged in his very bones, draining his body entirely. True, it had taken a great deal of time for his body to self-repair the wound on his wingblade (though forever would it remain a blistering, hideous scar) but even that had not been such an exhaustive process. 

Eventually, somehow, he seemed to connect it all together.

_ No. _

Impossible. Or so that had been the first reactive thought, startling him within his own skin. The question was not in regards to his own anatomy -- he knew his species was capable of maintaining both reproductive systems -- but towards the other. Their time together had been brief and bittersweet. A golden sunrise that had set far too soon. But again, the time spent in copulation had been brief.

Logic provided a blatant answer that he chose to deliberately ignore, already self aware of it as well. It did not answer the other concerns. They were not of the same species, not even of the same worlds. Conception should be utterly and entirely impossible. He had scoffed, burying himself further into the volcanic heart to lounge around in the passing days; trying to think nothing of it and ignoring the instinctive urge within his hindbrain, wasting time fighting in vain for rest. Hunger crept in thereafter, an insatiable one unlike any ever experienced before. Here he was trapped in a vicious and seemingly inescapable cycle: always exhausted and always starving, never daring to show his face and refusing to accept the truth. 

A violent awakening into a newly remade world, lured into a bloodthirsty fight for dominance… turned defeat… turned submission and acceptance… turned devoted loyalty…  _ exceptional  _ loyalty, no less. 

_ ( Such devotion,  _ he recalls the echoes of one of the hydra’s heads -- the center, perhaps? It was all so dispersed -- and the other two rubbing affectionately at the sides of his neck.  _ ) _

Impossible, regardless. 

Then again… 

Hybrids were not a mythical and otherworldly concept, he remembered. They were deemed strange and rare, even fewer in numbers and did not always survive the stage of hapless hatchlings. But some did.

And that was enough, that was all that it would take. 

He could ignore it no longer. He answered the imperative urge within and took flight, homeward bound. Ever cautious and swift, he chose to depart at the break of dawn with the salvation of clouds masking his flight and sunlight outshining the heat which his own body emitted. Had he left at nightfall, he would have been an easy target to spot, with red embers aglow and trickling down onto the surface. Just what was there to fear anyhow? It was highly doubtful that the king would be lurking in the sea waiting for the perfect opportunity to fight. Last he’d heard, Godzilla had devoted all of his time guarding the sacred egg which would allow for the rebirth of his queen, choosing her over any and all duties. 

( Another sort of exceptional devotion, he’d noted quietly. )

True, there were others lurking about now, having been forcibly awoken by his fallen Alpha’s call. And he knew so little about the majority of these Titans, save for the safe assumption that there was a reason each of them survived devastating extinction periods, and that it would not be wise to explore said reasons. But what would any of them gain from targeting him specifically? None of them were given any reason to care about his existence.

Perhaps there was some good to be taken away from exile; ending up right back where he had started beforehand, at the bottom of a social pyramid, ignored or forgotten. 

He could not have picked a wiser time to return to Isla de Mara. By the time he had resettled once more into the nest, the weight of his belly had grown so large it hindered long distance flights. Soon would follow the laying, and though he knew next to nothing on the matter, it was slightly reassuring knowing that instincts would likely take over once more. His body, unlike his mind, would know exactly what to do. 

No one had ever warned him it would be such a prolonged event, let alone a painfully torturous one. 

Of all the injuries ever sustained, of all the broken bones and battle wounds collected in the years if existence, they all paled in comparison to this. It was excruciating, as though his body were set aflame with a heat that he was not built to comfortably handle. Time had passed, too, though he could not tell how long. Whatever the amount may be, it was certain that a strong portion of it had been spent mentally cursing his dead Alpha. Not one to speak ill of the dead -- as if said dead were not disgraced enough as is -- but  _ damn you, damn you, all three of you. Worthless vile arrogant lots who can't even win a challenge for the throne, now nothing but ashes and leaving me with your stupid biology law defying seed. Damn you.  _

At some point, there had been an expulsion, because an absolute emptiness followed from his spent body. And then a complete mental blackout had followed, lasting for a period of time which he could not say. 

He awoke to the sight of  _ two  _ eggs; their color a pale sandstone and oblong in shape with an ellipsed top. From a glimpse, there appeared to be little difference between them. Upclose to the sharp eye one could see a size difference detail, with one being slightly smaller than the other. 

There was a tightening, constriction sensation in his chest. A sensation unlike any other. The urge to  _ protect  _ something that was not his own skin. Never before had he ever felt it -- not even during the golden age of the titans, where an abundance of his species dominated the skies. He preferred the company of his sulking self and held no memory of his own kin. No memories existed of them if there had ever been any. Everything he ever accomplished had been done completely and utterly alone: his first flight, his first successful hunt, his first territorial fight. There had been no mentor to guide him, each lesson had been learned from brutally painful mistakes. If there were ever such a thing as parents in his life then they were incredibly poor ones, having more or less abandoned him before the amniotic fluid had dried from his wings.

( Telltale rumors existed, once, that foretold a different story: that his parents had perished from a Great Fire. How  _ strange,  _ to be killed by an element which he molded himself off of and thrived from. It was why he took those rumors with a grain of salt. )

And here he was,  _ alone  _ once more in completely different circumstances. This time, he the mentor. Though, in truth, he felt as inexperienced as he had been when he was a hatchling. Suddenly, he felt so insufficient and petrified. But that suffocating feeling within only intensified, a ferocious love he had never known before. There was not even a guarantee that either offspring would survive to adulthood, let alone if the eggs themselves would hatch. For all he knew, they were as good as duds trapped in a thickened shell. Yet no rationality could change his mind, make him love them any less. 

If it had, he wouldn’t have been so devoted to such a restricted and repetitive schedule consisting of guarding the nest from sunrise to nightfall; leaving only when absolutely necessary, when hunger ravaged through his bones to the point that he was certain he was about to start eating the dead scales from which he preened off of. Though he rested, he dreaded doing it, fearful that a threat would emerge at any moment he lowered his guard. He could not -- absolutely would not allow anything, not even the  _ king  _ himself, pry him from this treasure hidden beneath him. 

Here laid the only thing he had left of his Alpha.

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.

A shame it was, the irony, that he had no clue that the pitiful living remnants of his Alpha were less than a few hundred miles or so away in an isolated, soundproof base crying out a distress call for  _ him. _

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	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How dare they laugh at him, mock him so. Had their little brains in those compact skulls forgotten already the terror he'd created in a few short days? 'When I am whole,' he thought bitterly. 'I will make them remember.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa so sorry for the long, unexpected hiatus. with the movie available on amazon now i was able to rewatch and get immediate muse back to finish up this particular chapter. also wanted to give a quick thanks to the person who mad the helpful suggestions about names for alan's organization -- i decided cronos to be the most appropriately fitting based on the lore. (:

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This time when San awoke, he was freed from his restraints.

Well, not  _ all  _ of them. His torso -- which he noticed that, at last, had finished regenerating a dermis and the process was now beginning to focus on appendages instead -- was bound to the examination platform still. A precaution, lest he become that desperate to escape that he attempt rolling away rather than waiting for proper limbs. But everything above that region was no longer restricted in movement.

Including his  _ jaw.  _

This was an exciting, new revelation to say the least. Slowly, subtly as can be, he tested the limits because this could have been too good to be true. They could have tied together his teeth in his unguarded status, and amused themselves watching him take the bait of apparent liberation, only to yank out his own incisors amidst his excitement. (Nothing that could not be regenerated, but a very unneeded task to add to such a magnificent list of bodily repairs as is.) It would not be the first time they mocked him, either.

He knew, could decipher the behavior even when he could not understand their cryptic language. Their strange little high pitched chittering and warbles were utterly lost on him, in spite of all the time spent on this cerulean planet -- even when straining upclose to hear, even if doing that only resulted in screams as opposed to words -- he could not understand a single word. Neither could his brothers, but the failure affected him more so because he was the unofficial lingual translator of the three. Most times, he could quickly pick up on the calls of another species and the patterns of communication. How, he could not say. It just seemed to be an innate gift, in the way combat was Ni’s specialty and leadership was Ichi’s. 

(Frankly, his gift could be better worded as a curse of knowledge with insatiable curiosity; why else was he tasting the flora of worlds, taking in the unfamiliar scents and strange sights?) 

Still, even where words failed, he understood basic behavior from the little insects. He knew, from observing the vibrancy of their throats and bellies, what their  _ laughter  _ was. The ones clad in white who gave him the poisonous concoctions didn’t usually do it, no, but the ones beside them liked to. The ones in armor always brandishing their weapons -- for what, a display of intimidation towards him? As if he’s going to tremble before their fire-sticks even in this haggard state -- are always so strangely jovial. They speak things when staring at him and then they erupt into laughter; sickening, condescending laughter over his state of being. Of  _ him.  _ Each and every time they would do this he would feel the heat of anger pooling within and rising to his throat like bile. Were it not for the restraints, he would have tested to see if his lightening beam ability had returned. Let that buoyant laughter be the last sound they ever make before being obliterated into ashes. But he couldn’t, and so he was left with nothing but the ability to stare them down with narrowed golden eyes and give off the occasional huff.

It worked, sometimes. Silence would follow and they would carry on conducting whatever meager daily activities they were going about around him. Other times, it encouraged the enthusiasm. They would pause and seemingly step back as though afraid, but San knew better. Fear had a reeking scent to it, and these men carried none of that. The deriding laughter would increase in volume and so would the intensity of this heated anger within him. 

How  _ dare  _ they -- were they blind? Incapable of recognizing the ever-growing threat. Ridiculing him as though he never was one to begin with, as if he and his brothers hadn’t laid waste to their land. Once he was whole and once his brothers returned, what then? Where would that melody of jeers be when their magnificent wings were on full display and storm clouds brewed around them? Perhaps their little brains in those compact skulls had limited memory, perhaps they had forgotten so quickly. Little reminders like those were the only aid which San could use to lick his wounded pride, metaphorically speaking.  _ When I am whole, I will make them remember.  _ he would vow, learning to not growl from there on out when they were close because it was a waste of breath.  _ The last thing they will ever know is fear of me.  _

And then none of them would laugh, ever again.

Except, perhaps, for the one with the arrogant eyes. 

He never cracked a smile anyways when nearby his presence. He never heard any sort of sound of amusement from him; in fact, when the cold one was nearby, all sounds of laughter died down immediately. He spoke in a low, warbling tone and spoke so few words. It was enough to send the rest scrambling like the insects-sized beings they truly were. Still, it was a wonder. Perhaps the cold one could not laugh at all, lacking the vocal cords or ability to do so in the way some creatures were incapable of producing a mating call. 

Now it would not matter. San could open his jaw fully and was gleaming at this accomplishment. Sharpened, fresh teeth were bared -- white as can be in rebirth, not having been stained from consumption yet -- and salivary glands activated at once. Oh, how long it had been since a proper meal.

He tested his own strength, swaying slightly from side to side. A fully-fused spinal cord now existed to support his being. The question at hand was whether or not he had the strength to be semi-mobile? Up until now, all of his energy had been sapped away at reparations. If it were not for human intervention forcing him to sleep for long periods of the day, that is probably what he would have done anyhow, because of how utterly exhausted he was. And while that fatigue was ever present, it lightened considerably. 

San closed his eyes before attempting to raise his head. This was the return of a bad habit of his he had developed from as far back as he could recall in his days as a hatchling. When he and his brothers were struggling to master the craft of flying, he had a terrible habit of squeezing his eyes shut in fear of falling to the ground. Ichi had been terrible to him, utterly relentless in getting him to break that pattern. And each time thereafter it was reiterated, emphasized that everything he did towards him was not out of maliciousness, but frustration in setting things right. They were three hearts, three souls, three minds intertwined into one body -- if one was lacking, all would fail. 

But now, Ichi was not here to berate him with a lecture or nip at his horns. Ichi also wasn’t here to reassure or encourage him. All San was surrounded with was fear and uncertainty and at this point, did it honestly hurt if he wanted to briefly shield himself from it here or there? 

Unconsciously holding a breath, he proceeded forward. Delicately, he lifted off from the ground a few inches. He was going up, and up he remained. This triggered a memory of the first time Ghidorah as a set had ever successfully flown together -- movements synchronized, the wind manipulated by their control and not the other way around -- and in no danger of plunging. 

Eyes immediately snapped open, as if in disbelief of the success. 

The sight before him was of a small crowd of humans gathered before him, some bespectacled. Others kept tight to their weapons as they usually did. Golden eyes could make out the cold one’s face, which seem alight with keen interest.

San returned the favor of interest, golden eyes narrowing and dragging a forked tongue across his mouth. While not one for communicating with his captors, he gathered that in universal language terms this would signify hunger. Because all he saw before him were potential delectable snacks. 

Adrenaline surged through him. In his moment of excitement he did not even think -- perhaps there was a way to lure a few of them closer towards him; after all, he was going off the assumption that he could reach any of them at neck’s length -- he only wanted to act. He strained himself further upwards to an intimidating, considerable height. Here he stood, half a repaired body and even then, perfecting an intimidating display. 

(If only there were lightning present, stemming from the pit of his belly and surging upwards to the tips of fangs; let their faces turn to awestruck horror at the glow, let this be the last thing they ever see.) 

Teeth bared, he lurched forward like a viper ready to strike.

And within seconds, unbearable white hot pain struck him from an unknown source. It traveled everywhere, but felt concentrated within his head. It was a crushing pressure, an unforgiving and unrelenting force onto his skull. This was unlike anything he had ever experienced before; not anything in any prior combat, not from the red-hot surge of the weak king’s explosive force which had killed his last body, not even the agony he endured in the self-healing process. 

It was coming from within, with no way to stop.

San let out a high-pitched screech, all efforts and grace abandoned, slamming headfirst onto the paved floor, merely a few meters away from the humans.

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The creature’s body it turned out, for all things strange and unknowable, had excellent adaptation skills. Perhaps that could explain it's ability to survive long exposure periods to the relentless conditions of outer space without any consequences. Then again, it was such a narrow minded perspective to even assume there would be resulting damage to the creature from frigid temperatures and incalculable levels of radiation exposure. For all anyone knew, that was where it truly thrived. Here, on this small cerulean marble of a planet, perhaps the conditions suitable for life were hellish for it instead. 

(If it was not beforehand, it certainly would be now.)

The concept was simple enough on paper: implantation of cybernetic nanobots along the spinal cord while the dermis was still weak enough to be penetrated by surgical steel and other such machinery. Once successfully attached, they would be able to assist in amplifying the single from CRONOS own interpretation of an ORCA machine (with a title including 3.0 not all that appealing, it was considered a work in progress in the name) one which would give specific commands that the creature would adhere to or else. Internal disciplinary measures had to be implemented as well. Once the creature healed fully, it would be impossible to retain control otherwise. So, much like the trials for Pavlov's Dogs, there was a consequence action at the ready to be used should the creature attempt to rebel or disobey. Unimaginable levels of shock directly into the nervous system until it adhered. Or until Alan decided otherwise. 

This was only the beginning for Project Hydra. 

It was not without its risks, other course. Even the first surgical process was met with whispers of skepticism and fear. The biologists recruited with Orlov for this particular project speculated that this was not the only source of neurons, theorizing they were spread throughout the body much like an octopus. And from the footage they were able to review from Isla de Mara, the regeneration process itself was comparable to rapid version of a worm's regeneration of it's own body. With no one on the team able to agree on the best comparison of Monster X to a native species on Earth, there was no reference to go off during the procedure itself; thus, intensifying the risk of something going awry. But Alan had given the word anyways when a hesitant few dared questioned, requested confirmation once more. 

And then, it turned out, not only had things gone splendidly. Not only had there been no complications openly operating on a drugged, vulnerable alien life form that could have been exposed to the germs of this planet (though really, as if a  _ War of the Worlds  _ scenario would be enough to defeat the hydra; how unthinkable and embarrassing, Alan would not even humor the thought) and not only were the bots in place. 

The real excitement began when scanners indicated that the creature's body was  _ fusing  _ with the metallic material. 

If there was ever a worry beforehand about the bots being dislodged or dislocated, the fear was needless now. The poor creature's own biology was working against him and in their favor instead. For whatever reason, it had accepted this outside material and absorbed it whole. Had it mistaken it as something helpful for the healing process, perhaps? That was a popular speculation. There would be no way of knowing for sure, because soon the period of research and wonder and awe towards the morbid, damaged thing would end.

It's true purpose -- everything spent and worked towards -- would begin to come fruition.

But first, a necessary test.

Just because the foreign objects introduced had been accepted did not mean it automatically worked. Perhaps being buried beneath muscular fibers and nervous tissue had muffled the effects, or even perhaps torn the machines apart. There would only be one way of finding out for sure. 

Alan himself had stepped forward with every intent of testing the ability for himself.

It had little to do with lacking faith in any of his men. Orlov, Reese, Collins… a few examples came to mind. Any of the scientists involved on the procedure could have easily handled the device in their hands themselves. Any of them could have observed from a safe distance the reactions the creature would emit under the safety of restraints, watch it mewl and roll about moreso than it usually did from the painful healing growth spurts. Any of them would give a standard report back to Alan on the results, spoon feeding him words they figured he wanted to hear. 

But that couldn't have been any farther from what Alan actually wanted himself.

The difference between those men and himself was simple: the creature  _ hated  _ him. Feared him, perhaps, to some extent or so he'd heard the suggestions from an observant few. He was doubtful of that, and certainly wouldn't let that go to his ego that a mere human, with weapons that paled in advance to the hydra's magnificence, could possibly frighten it. No, the hatred was far more evident. Palpable, even. It certainly did not enjoy being kept here, restrained and drugged and tested on constantly in order to better understand its anatomy and physiology.

(A delightful prospect crossed Alan's mind recently; it was very likely that Cronos had now collected and obtained far more knowledge on Monster X than Monarch ever had in all the years of studying it during its frozen comatose state. They now understood it better than their rival organization could ever hope, and someday that frightening truth would be realized among them. But not yet.) 

There was something particular about Alan himself. By scent alone, could the creature somehow decipher him as the leader? Ergo, the  _ alpha.  _ Because there was a semblance of truth to that. Here laid the hydra, a defeated and mortally wounded mess, helpless and healing at a snail's pace. Alan stood, not tall and certainly not towering, but it was more than he could say for himself than he could of the restrained creature. 

Was that what angered it, so? The humility, the embarrassing torture of being brought down the ranks twice in total now. Once from Godzilla, and now from humans themselves. 

If only it could speak their language, or vice versa. What secrets would unravel from it’s own mouth? Somehow, Alan could envision it. Something once so mighty, comparable to a deity, bound and chained. It likely would refuse to speak for some time, save for curses of damnation and swearing vengeance, but after awhile it would break as all things did. It would vent the emotions running through it’s mind; the frustration, the rage, the sheer envy of knowing it had lost the crown entirely to the lizard king. (Was that always how it had been, a back and forth effort between two forces of great might vying for a metaphorical crown? Had it ever once belonged to the creature for a time like before, Alan wondered.) What then, if communication were possible. Could it be made to understand and reasoned with? Bought and bribed with, reaping the rewards of relishing in destruction to an allowed degree. 

No, of course it couldn’t be reasoned with. And even if a deal were struck, it was not too difficult to imagine a scenario in which the agreement was set upon lies, and that it would quickly turn on all of them.

Fear, it seemed, was the only answer. 

He’d given an order that seemed simple enough to follow.  _ “Release the restraints,”  _ he’d stated plainly. Not loosened, not even test the waters with just one. The order implicated all, if not then at least the most critical ones. Even with his back turned, Alan imagined the bewildered exchanges of uncertainty among his men. With all the time that had passed and all the anaesthetics given, still few ever felt comfortable closely approaching Monster X. For many, it would be pushing a limit by asking them to approach the creature’s mouth of razor sharp teeth -- a single tooth alone at least three times the size of the tallest man in the room -- and undo the restraints, with the creature unconscious or not. 

It was one thing to question an order or seek confirmation. To deny it or outright refuse him, all were well aware of the consequences. And these days, with everything going swimmingly, no one wanted to be the unfortunate soul that soiled Alan’s record lasting good mood.

For just this once, Alan gave the ordered men permission to stand by idly for as long as they pleased. After all, he added, if it was their preference to wait at a much later time for the creature to be conscious and struggling -- it’s movements no doubt helpful in removing the restraints at a faster rate -- then by all means, who was he to disagree with what was the preferred method? The wait should not be too long now.

(That was the fastest he’d ever seen any of his soldiers move on task shortly after.)

Later, he and small group stood at what appeared to be a considerable distance from the creature as it slowly regained consciousness. The truth was it was  _ ill-advised,  _ because if the creature had surmised the strength to reach with it’s neck then there would be no stopping it from lurching at them. It was like a cobra waiting to strike, a single clamp of the massive jaws could prove fatal to the entire gathering. But that was precisely what Alan was seeking to test. 

_ Go on then,  _ he’d thought to himself while observing it stir. It was almost as though he were seeking a challenge, hoping it would notice his presence right away. 

He kept a tight grip on the controls to the pre-programmed bots, having been activated during the final stages of the surgical implantation process, now awaiting the cue to fire. Much like a dog owner training with a shock collar and boundaries, what Alan wanted was one thing only: the creature would recognize him as the being to yield to. That  _ he  _ was in control of the situation now and would determine how things would go henceforth. 

A trivial process, most likely. Not without a fight from the creature’s end, he imagined. A defiant spirit was to be expected. But Alan retained his patience, and there wasn’t exactly a limited battery power on the nanobots.

As certain as the sunrise, the creature was bewildered and wanted to test it’s newfound freedom. It began to rise, and if the spectacle wasn’t laced with tension and terror, it would have been like watching a newly crafted airplane take off for the first time ever.

It rose up and up and up. 

A few heads followed it’s trail, a distorted choir of mumbles from the people. Some few kept tight to their weapons with a hold so tight it would seem they could snap their rifles in two. Alan was stoic as ever, save for his eyes. They, too, followed up.

Given credit where it was due, he noted that the creature was utterly magnificent like this upclose. Even in the wrecked, incomplete state it was in. The fresh scales glittered like gold, and the head had even managed to block out one of the warehouse lights like an eclipse.

Time seemed to slow.

It was as if Alan could calculate from the smallest details -- the coiling of muscles, the narrowing of golden eyes -- when the hydra was prepared to strike. Already, his hands had gotten to work before his mind had even relayed the message. It launched forward at frightening speed, and the mumbles rose to cries of panic --  _ “sir!”  _ he heard from a few -- and weapons were raised. All needless in the end.

Much like ORCA’s functions working at the very last second of good timing, so too did the remote in hand.

The creature shrieked in evident pain. It was an ear-splitting sound to some, as it writhed and twitched. Alan recalled the words of advise about the shock levels; going too high would likely kill it, and all the work would have been for nothing, because everyone was doubtful about the regenerative capabilities for a second time. And even if it were so, it was too time consuming to even risk. Too high of a point almost meant the risk of pain tolerance, exceeding the limit quickly and disaster was sure to follow. Choose too low of a shock level and… well, frankly, just about everyone in the room knew how a sentence like that would finish. 

This estimated happy medium worked out perfectly.

Roughly a few meters distanced all the humans in the room from the hydra. No one was willing to seal that gap, not even Alan. Only someone blindingly stupid would assume the situation safe even with the creature distracted by intense pain. It was reacting erratically, and should someone stand in the way, the crushing weight of force alone could send someone straight into the concrete walls. 

“See, gentlemen?” he inquired to his nervous colleagues who seemed to huddle further back. “It will learn to obey soon enough.” 

He surveyed the still-writhing sight, maintaining the medium level as it remained in place. It was like a game of hot and cold; the longer it remained or the closer it would get to them, the worse the pain would get. The further back it went -- something which is eventually picked up on, struggling and panting heavily the entire time -- the pain would lessen. 

Were the dermis of the torso not hardened and complete by now, everyone would have likely been able to hear the creature’s fitful, irregular heartbeat struggling to return to calm levels. 

“That seemed to be this one’s specialty, if you’ll recall.” Alan continued, as if the past few minutes on pause hadn’t happened. “It served to please the other heads. It shall do the same for us now.”

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	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pride was shining in his feverish eyes. "Just imagine it: all the secrets Monarch has been trying to unlock for decades, and by the time I'm through, we could learn them all in under an hour long conversation."

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As it turned out, the hydra would not submit so soon thereafter. 

Unsurprisingly, they had underestimated him once more. Getting him subdued was like training a feral wolf to act like a dog. It was a fixed pattern within, one that was thousands upon thousands of years old. The entire organization of Cronos had foolishly hoped that the submissive process would take no more than a few days, save for one.

Though she would not consider it brave, being the sole voice of protest, Dr. Noemi Collins -- the animal behavior specialist of the team, unofficially compared in the rumor mill as the  _ anti  _ Dr. Mark Russell, as Orlov as to the late Emma -- stood firm to her statement; isolating and sensory deprivation, on top of drugging and surgical intervention may traumatize it. But this was not the natural procedure of attempting to claim the title of alpha over it; this was too unnatural and irregular, it would not be able to recognize it. Furthermore, in the event that it did, it could  _ not  _ heed to the order of another; it would sooner choose death -- as it had in Boston -- over submission.

In a sense, her word was considered dissent on Alan’s change of objectives. Because in Layman’s terms, besides her digging her heels into the ground with the phrase that an old dog could not be taught new tricks, she was more or less stating that her leader’s way of thinking was  _ wrong.  _

It wasn’t that Cronos was being run like a dictatorship; everyone followed willingly, and nearly everyone agreed to Alan’s take on what was necessary in the beginning. At the very least, every individual present was willing to go to whatever violent extremities were deemed necessary in order to stabilize the planet. The majority saw it one way: extreme eradication of humanity, for mass overpopulation was one of the biggest contributions to the issues at hand. Not  _ genocide  _ per se, as some defended it, because that term implied a controlled selection. Their intents were unbiased, in mass numbers all at once.

Even then, Collins was used to remaining in the minority: a first-generation citizen and college student, who’d been arrested during peaceful protests over power plant companies unfairly building infrastructures on sacred grounds. The anger from the event simmered within, but she remained out of trouble save for that instance in her freshman year, and was able to receive her PhD. Not long after, her resolve found her in contact with connections to Alan. He understood her, understood the rage and frustration she’d felt when watching everyone stand by idly as they continued to bring this planet to ruin. To her, Alan was different. He not only listened, but he offered a  _ solution.  _ A platform created from the ground up by him, no longer tolerant of the narcissism and greed of the world leaders. Diplomacy and negotiations would no longer be acceptable methods to a solution, they were far too time consuming with little promise of seeing actual results. 

Words like that were enough to fire up anyone with motivation, herself included. Alone, she would accomplish nothing even though she had an impressive educational background. Small and unimposing, she was a petite woman whose most noticeable assets were her thick curly hair, always tied back, and the semi-permanent bags beneath dark eyes. A dedicated student and by no means capable of physical fighting by any means, it overjoyed her to hear that Alan had no intent of turning her into a soldier, it was her clever mind he needed. Besides, he’d reassured her, he had already gathered enough able-bodied individuals to take care of the dirty work

Violence was a necessary action, Noemi felt it was justified now more so than ever. She wasted no time signing up to join Cronos, throwing a clean record away entirely the day it became known that her name was associated among his forces. For a time she had thought they would make critical moves against the top percentage of the wealthiest, the CEOs of the largest international corporations who caused the greatest international environmental harm. By dismantling those branches of power immediately, a majority of the issues would be resolved.

But Alan saw the world differently.

Cynical and hard-pressed. She knew so little about his past, but what she did know was enough. He'd served in war, and war was hell. Capable of changing any good man into a beast beyond recognition. Except that transformation hadn't happened to him so much as he had witnessed it first hand among colleagues, civilians and merciless enemies alike. When pushed to the worst situations, his philosophy was that humans were too far gone for critical thinking skills as a group; they would simply turn on each other, eat each other alive and continue exploiting resources to selfishly survive for as long as they could.

One would say that Alan respected the Titans more so than humans because of this. There were laws of nature in place in a universal code which all of them seemed to adhere to; it didn't list details of backstabbing, ass licking and money grubbing for sure. Instead was a strange, noble sense of honesty among the displaced surviving species. 

"If you  _ actually  _ respected them," Collins had challenged his authority, once again. "You'd listen to me when I tell you that the chances for success are so miniscule, you couldn't see them even with reading glasses. You're out of your mind! You're not trying to become alpha through an artificial process, you're trying to play God! And it's going to come back to get you!"

A heavy silence followed. She wasn't much of a religious woman, but she'd always felt a dark sense of unease over the prospects of anyone playing god; whether it was an arrogant surgeon working on a controversial patient, a corporate leader drunk on power and belittling all below rank, and even the occasional wrong politician put into power. Disaster was sure to follow from those with a complex like that.

She had thought Alan better than that. Perhaps she had thought wrong. 

“Emmy,” he began, uncharacteristically soft and her resolve faltered for a second. All her colleagues in the organization referred to her by her professional title, but outside of the working world (if this could be called a job truthfully) she was never Noemi, just Emmy. Still, it was reserved only for personal connections. Alan was the only one with reservations in Cronos to call her that, and it had nothing to do with his leadership position. She was one of the youngest ever recruited into the team, and in a sense, he looked to her as something of a daughter that he never had. It was why they were even having this conversation in the first place. Anyone else, had they even summoned the courage to confront him like this, would have faced immediate consequence for insubordination. “If you are proposing that I set this Titan free, you would be asking me to do far greater damage onto this world than our own enemies. Is that what you’d like?”

“No, of course not sir --” she shook her head frantically, the untameable mass of curly black hair bouncing. A misinterpretation could mean the end of this conversation being promptly shut down. “I’m aware of its ability to terraform. I know about the devastation it can do. Which is exactly why I’m arguing against this: what happens when things go too far? What happens when it doesn’t listen to us, and is willing to suffer the consequences if it means getting what it wants? What happens when it gets that single window of opportunity, even a  _ slither _ \--”

“Enough.” he abruptly cut her off, his tone right back to the normal one when addressing anyone else. It would seem that her own window of opportunity was being cut off here and now. She stopped at once, but the expression on her face was clear as day -- she wasn’t happy.

It was a silent stand-off for a few seconds.

“I will not hear anymore of it.” Alan continued with finalization. “I’ve entertained this conversation long enough with you for the past few days. Enough with the talking in circles, and allow me to ask you this: do you  _ pity  _ it?”

“N- no… of course not.” Emmy found herself shrinking underneath that scrutinizing glare. It would be outright ridiculous to feel sorry for it when the same could not be said from it’s end; it stared everything down with palpable hatred, even if it wasn’t without just cause. If given the opportunity, it would slaughter everyone in the warehouse and make a break for it to do the same unto the rest of humanity. Humans were selfish caricatures, the bringers of their own destruction and in dire need of a radical resolution if the planet was to survive. This much Emmy believed, feverishly so. But there were limits, and allowing a spite-filled Titan to terraform the world to it’s preference was one of them. 

“Good.” he nodded, even if something in his expression indicated that he wasn’t entirely happy with that response. “I won’t have you wear a bleeding heart for it like a stray at a kill shelter. I recruited you because you agreed in the same points as I did, as the rest of Cronos does; destruction of our planet is inevitable, unless we are willing to take the initiative which no one else will.”

Her dark eyes glanced down for a brief moment and noticed the remote kept tight to his side as a holster. For a moment, she wondered if paranoia was beginning to set in: as if her boss feared someone else taking the advantage at hand, the key to controlling the hydra.

Anyone thinking of defection could damn well try, it would certainly be entertaining. Alan was not one to be underestimated. Wasn’t he in elite special forces, if Emmy remembered correctly. He probably knew off the top of his head thirty different ways to kill ten people with a single unlikely makeshift weapon. 

“Don’t question my loyalty, if that’s where you’re getting at.” Emmy said suddenly, realizing where he might have been going with his words. “Arrest warrants or not, I’m stuck here with you and your ragtag gang whether you like it or not, old man.”

For a second, the tension broke when she ended her sentence with a teasing smile. He almost reciprocated it,  _ almost _ , with the most subtle twitch in his expressions and a twinkle in frost blue eyes. It was only for a split second, a real blink and you miss it moment. But Emmy had been around long enough to catch and appreciate those little moments. 

“I have faith in you, Dr. Collins.”  _ Ah,  _ back the professional titles. Meaning that either he was expecting someone else to walk in soon or this was the true end of the conversation. “But you have given me irrefutable evidence that you have none in me anymore.”

“I believe in you, sir. I believe in Cronos.” she refuted solemnly, citing those words as if they were a fraternity vow. They were not without genuine intent in them. It was just becoming a tad exhausting how he had a strategy every now and then to guilt trip her with sentences like that. She couldn’t even vent her frustrations about those to her fellow colleagues, they’d be in disbelief and shock that Alan was capable of emotional manipulation like that. Or, frankly, that Alan was capable of a complex range of emotions. 

Just as the other times before, that response seemed sufficient enough. Either that, or perhaps Alan was just as tired of this conversation as she. 

Nevertheless, he nodded. “Good. You may leave now.”

She exited the room in seconds. Where to, he did not know nor could he say he cared this time. The number of times she’d been voicing protests as of late was beginning to alarm him. Dr. Russell’s dissent had been infuriating and disappointing, to say the least. But even with the years of secret collaborations and meetings with her paled in comparison to the devotion he’d had from Dr. Collins; somehow, she had managed to touch a soft spot within him that he’d thought was long forgotten. But once again he was seeing the cycle of questioning and uncertainty right from her. He would not allow any hindrances this time from anyone with a sudden moral complexity, suddenly wanting to take up civil rights cases for a damned Titan. 

He sighed. Alan was not a praying man, had not done so in years, not since combat. But just this once there was an unspoken invocation that this was only a temporary phase on Collins’ end. Otherwise, he would be forced to take a necessary executive action in order to dampen any other questioning and hints of rebellion.

And frankly, it would be a shame having to kill a bright mind like that.

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“We still need a name for the prototype.”

“ORCA 3.0?”

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you this -- we are  _ not  _ calling it that. It’s not even ORCA anymore, it’s an adaptation from the blueprints.”

“Geez,  _ sorry.”  _ huffed the armed guard at hand, raising his hands in self defense. The scientists these days were getting crankier than ever. They were all sleep deprived coffee leeching monsters at this point, with behavior as ferocious as the Titan itself frankly. Granted, some sympathy could be spared since the majority were being worked to the bone by Jonah’s orders. Time was a precious thing, not on their side as of late. There were rumors going about that Monarch had begun to track them down, at the very least began retracing their footsteps from Boston during the investigation process. 

Now, it wasn’t the idea of a confrontation itself which the majority of the soldiers feared. They were armed, always at the ready. Not afraid to kill anyone who stepped through the doors that wasn’t one of them. Let Monarch try and come marching in, see if they could conquer them. Once again, like Antarctica, they’d be in for a nasty surprise even if they had the larger numbers. 

The problem was the big fucking 1/3rd of a semi-mobile dragon here that was all parts pissed off and hungry. Some feared of Monarch recapturing it, either terminating it or somehow refreezing it once more. Perhaps they’d get Godzilla on their side somehow and bring him along for the ride, and present the creature here like a laid out steak for him to finish off. Then all their work would have been for nothing. Others feared what  _ Jonah  _ himself would be willing to do in the event Monarch stormed through the doors. The hydra was being shaped into something like their own personal Roman gladiator, to fight on their behalf and follow all their -- or rather, follow Alan’s -- orders exactly. As of this moment though it was nowhere near trained, it was barely submissive. But maybe, in the event that Monarch suddenly appeared with the intent of ruining everything, that unhinged feral anger was exactly what Alan would use on them without a care as to how to get back to square one.

Of course, those whispered fears were kept among themselves. But even when not brought up in conversations, they were very evident based on pale-faced exchanges whenever anyone was near the Titan or the word Monarch was dropped.

“Gentlemen,” a third voice broke the conversation and the two turned to see Dr. Collins approaching. The two exchanged a wordless glance, evidently sharing the same thought --  _ great, the teacher’s pet.  _ For reasons neither of these could fathom, Collins was a particular unofficial favorite of Jonah’s. She was a walking parrot who would mimic back anything which they said word for word right back to Jonah, including any sarcastic quips or metaphors which she took literally. 

Then again, it was kind of hard to hate the kid. She was the only one willing to stand up to the boss half the time; without her, half the guards here would have never gotten their breaks or shift changes if she wasn’t the one arguing on their behalf.  _ We don’t need just men, we need good men. Well-rested and aware. Or would you rather Monarch come bursting through the doors because the guards at the door fell asleep?  _ So really, a huge thanks was owed to her these days. But the scientist in particular, Dr. Lyle Reese, was still glowering. This prototype had been his little pet project these past few weeks and he wanted to be the one to present the good news that it was near fully functioning. Now with Collins here he had no doubt she’d go skipping right back to Jonah’s office and tell the good news herself. 

“What’s going on? Anything exciting?” she smiled, getting close enough to view the prototype. 

“Just some tweaking, trying to work with the best that I got which is more or less a monkey handing me the wrong tools every twenty seconds.” Reese replied sarcastically, nudging an elbow directly into the side of the guard to drop the hint to not say anything. Bad idea, considering the man was donned head to toe in bulletproof armor. He’d just earned himself a funny bone spasm for it.

In any case, that hint had been completely lost on the guard, Xavier. “Doc here says he’s got te prototype almost finished, could be ready for an icebreaker conversation with the big bad noodle here anytime soon!”

He was grinning in delight, and it was matched by Collins’ look of surprise and her own smile. Reese, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to bury his face in his hands. All his hard work leading up to his big moment, and now it was about to be ruined. He wasn’t stupid enough to perform the action of a facepalm right in front of Collins though, no doubt she’d immediately snitch about that to Jonah. And then he’d get nothing but his ass chewed instead of any sloppy seconds praise whatsoever. 

“That’s wonderful!” Collins clapped her hands together, then looking towards Reese. “How soon do you suppose?”

“I don’t know.” Reese somewhat supplied a lie, scratching the back of his neck. “I was hoping to have a name figured out first to present to Jonah before I go waltzing in. But I’ve been having a hard time, being surrounded by only the brightest minds and all. I’m  _ swarmed  _ with creative suggestions, as you can imagine.”

Collins suppressed a snort when Reese rolled his eyes, all the while Xavier stood there looking a tad lost. Seems he was never good at reading the room.

“Well, what about…” she paused in thought, puckering her lips and mentally crossing through a list which she supplied on the spot. Except rather than try Reese’s patience with nothing but a set of rejections, she quickly sought out the one that she -- knowing Reese’s dry sense of humor -- would likely get him to enjoy. “Oh, I know. What about ‘viral’, Dr. Reese?”

Reese’s eyebrows shot up, and he spoke in a tone so dry she couldn’t tell if he was humored or just annoyed. “Viral?” he repeated.

“Vocal Interpretations Registered into Authoritative Language.” Noemi deciphered the abbreviation with ease. “Ignoring the ‘into’ line in the abbreviation.”

“VIRAL?” Xavier tested the word for himself and shrugged. But there was never any concern for him; not only was any of this not related to his occupation whatsoever, but he was an easy to please individual. “I think it fits.”

All the while Reese was just simmering in bitterness; after all,  _ he  _ worked on the project. He wanted to christen his invention himself with pride. But it was his own damn fault for the shortcomings in the creativity department. Like Collins’ suggestion or not, he knew that if he rejected it outright he’d only be wasting more time trying in vain to think of something else. He resigned to the suggestion right away, shoulders slouching and sighing.

“It’s certainly not the worst suggestion I’ve had all day.” he muttered.

“It will really be able to understand commands we give it?” Collins decided to make a change of subject before Xavier finally caught on to the not-so-subtle hints of insults directed towards him. After all, as much of a happy-go-lucky type of personality as he was, he could also just as easily shove the butt of his rife into Reese’s cranium and call it a day. It would not be the first time he’d done that to a researcher either. 

This time, a pleased look presented itself on Reese’s face. Pride was practically shining in his eyes as he nodded. “Dr. Collins by the time I finish up the tweaks, we could be having full conversations with it. It will be able to interpret his sounds and give us typed responses. Just imagine it; all the secrets Monarch’s worked so hard to unlock for decades, and we could have them in an hour long chat.”

Of course it was easy to take a nonchalant jab or two at Monarch for Reese; he’d once been interning there for a time as a prodigal college student. Apparently, he’d even been drinking buddies with the cynical Dr. Stanton -- made sense, seeing as they shared the same sense of droll humor -- back when all was well. But when the opportunity fell through despite promises, Reese became infuriated and dissented, even managing to steal a few files from Monarch before disappearing. Because he was so low ranking as an intern, the articles he’d taken didn’t amount to much -- certainly nothing groundbreakingly confidential -- but it was unnecessary in any case. His intellect and vying for revenge against the company that rejected him had been a good enough motive for Jonah to allow him to join. 

Collins herself had heard on multiple occasions, namely ones lacking sobriety, Reese took to comforting himself and licking his old wounds. He’d say things like it was Monarch’s greatest loss the day they rejected him, but they just hadn’t realized it. That, and Dr. Stanton was the worst kind of backstabber there was for doing nothing to back him up when his application fell through. Soon enough, Reese had reassured himself loudly, Monarch would be devastated with grief and regret when they realized their idiocy cost them their greatest asset.

Now, with VIRAL nearly finished in construction, Collins had to give credit where it was due. Perhaps he was right. 

“We could understand what the Titan is thinking and saying? Find out about the ancient gods of before through him?” she repeated slowly, seeking confirmation. It all almost sounded too good to be true.

“It could probably give it’s opinion on all of us, if we’re betting on it being that smart.” Reese said, fingers dragging across the surface of the now recently named VIRAL machine. He stared at his forefingers for a moment, as if to make sure dust hadn’t already collected on his beloved prize. And all the while when keeping his eyes focused on his hand and not his colleague, he added; “Of course, I imagine regardless, it doesn’t have very nice things to say about any of us.”

It was only another joke to the pile.

But as Collins nodded, she felt a heavy weight sink to the pit of her stomach; something akin to guilt.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so change of formatting for once and adding a note at the end rather than the beginning; let's see how many of you catch on to the easter egg with this new character. because for anyone that does guess it right, just know she's definitely going to be relevant to this plot now. ;) for anyone hopelessly lost about the reference, my hint for you is to check out the hesei era characters.
> 
> for the record, i know the kotm novel revealed a tragic backstory for alan and relaying that he had a family once, a daughter included, etc etc. i didn't envision that for him when i first began writing this fic, which i'm fairly sure i started before the novel itself came out. so for the purposes of this fic in particular, i'm not acknowledging that piece of the novel. some villains do great with a tragic backstory, others i feel don't really need one. i personally think alan, or my version at least, falls better in the latter. 
> 
> one last thing, in case if anyone is wondering; i don't really have any intent to write pov chapters for the monarch side. i love the characters there, but for now there's not really anything i can think of to do with them. they're most certainly important and might show up later on, until then i just imagine they're up to stuff that will be relevant for the future gvk movie. so meanwhile, we're staying with team Bad Guys (because i know how much you all clearly love them and alan) when it comes to the humans.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would speak whenever he pleased and to whomsoever he wished! There was falling into submission and then were was acting like a pet, speaking on command from an entitled master; there were low stoops he was desperately willing to fall into line at this point so much as the pain lessened, but this was not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative title: the three stooges try to have a civil conversation with drogon.
> 
> the moment you've all been waiting for (or, knowing you guys, probably the 3rd most anticipated. i think i can guess what the top two are)... or at least, part one of that. turns out san knows his fair share of insults too.

.

.

.

He has resigned himself to lying as still as possible. 

In that way, he can’t get hurt. Or so he hopes. The cold one will have no reason to do whatever it is he keeps doing to him whenever he so much as _moves_ in a way that displeases him. Except that keeping as still as he can comes with it’s own price. That, too, comes with pain. A different sort, incomparable to the one from the earlier days of the regeneration process. That had been different, the worst of it; laid and strapped down, half-alive and only just, a panicked and frantic body working with next to nothing and doing as best of an effort as it could to sire something out of that nothingness. Raw flesh and nerves exposed, the experience like a daily coating of salt on the wounds to add a fresh sting in addition to the agonizing pain he was already in.

How was he to know that the nitrous-oxygen atmosphere of this world could do wonders of affliction onto his exposed innards?

(San keeps mental notes to himself at this point; of the many things he will tell his brothers upon their return. Weaknesses that he feels they ought to be aware of, that they might not have realized before. That this place, the stubborn little cerulean planet with the creatures that refuse to yield, is a weapon in itself: it can poison their own body, in a slow-working method.)

This pain is significantly different. An intensely uncomfortable ache. Growing pains, or so he suspects. His appendages feel cramped, suffocated already even when not finished developing. An instinctive urge is firing off from one of his neurons somewhere. _Fly,_ it urges. _Fly now, fly now, fly now._ But he can’t: the wings are nowhere near finished. He’ll make an utter fool of himself trying to cause a ruckus and flop about, incapable of suspending himself in the air. But the urge presses on, antagonizes his mind even when he tries to grasp what little rest he can in this position. _Flyflyfly._ He wants to, more than anything. Wants to recall the taste of this world’s air on his tongue and recreate the vivid memories of his recurring, happier dreams. He wants nothing more than to reach for the first window of opportunity and escape, regain a sense of freedom back once more.

Where would he go, anyhow? This planet is pathetically small. It cannot sustain. The atmosphere could barely handle their long treks, collapsing in on itself and conjuring hurricanes larger than they even intended. While that came with benefits -- the intimidation, the power display, the thrill of knowing the sight of it alone is the one and only warning the creatures of this world would have before they stormed their lands -- it would do more harm than good in this case. It would be an immediate giveaway. He would be tracked, he would be hunted. He would be _found._

There was no place he could run to where the pain within would dissipate. Somehow it would activate again no matter where he went; the crushing, burning alive within sensation that would no doubt hinder his already unstable flight pattern (to fly _alone_ without his brothers, without an established lookout from all angles, is a nightmare in itself with how vulnerable he would be) and he’d come crashing down. That would draw attention. 

(Who knows? Perhaps a small mercy in that the lizard king would find him first, finish off what he had started in that city arena. At least that would be quick.)

He cannot chance it. He simply can’t. Whether it’s logic outweighing optimistic thought or broken pessimism poisoning his fighting spirit, he refuses. That dampers the urge but only slightly. Every now and then it comes again, only this time it sounds more like a plea. He wonders if it is the small semblance of his brothers returning, urging at his conscious to do something for their sakes. Perhaps they, too, fear returning and being hounded by the cold one and his enforcement of the ones in white. They don’t want to end up like him, drugged and restrained and unsettling things placed in themselves meant to hurt him. 

They do not want to return, only to be made to _break,_ like him.

At this point, San is beginning to feel like the other little ants that the cold one commands -- they all tremble before him, heed to his order, and never step out of line for fear of consequences. For someone who cannot understand a single word from any of their warbled trilling, he has confidently deduced that much. He never want to risk this one’s ire, trigger the white-hot ruthless barrages of pain assaulting at his nerves, _stopstopstop_ screaming from every single one of them while his roaring pleas are ignored.

It is humiliating, and he is aware of it, to be petrified like this over someone so much smaller and weaker; it should be the other way around. That is the way of any natural order, after all. Wherever he and his brothers had gone in the cosmos, all had yielded in trembling fear before them. All had felled regardless, but the notion of respect and submission had been much appreciated. Otherwise, it meant nothing to them. They all meant nothing. The Three Storm Death Song was meant to look down and destroy those below them as they pleased.

Well… perhaps not _all_ of them.

His train of thought is halted, golden eyes fixated on a set of ants that are tinkering with an object in their hands. Instinctive, familiar fear begins running through him. Instantly, San remembers that agonizing sound machine and it’s authoritative, barking calls coming in echoes one after another: aside from being headache inducing, it frightened him because of how easily he was capable of being lured under a trance from it. It was as if the status of Alpha meant nothing, overriding the long established dominance of eldest brother Ichi and subduing all three. 

_Yield,_ it had barked -- there was no question, only the word of command. In the frozen tundra it had been most agonizing; booming authority commanding them when the taste of freedom and snowfall fresh on their forked tongues. Being subdued was considered on par as being trapped, something downright vile for them to endure. 

Ironic, given he was now both in these circumstances: trapped, and on the verge of becoming subdued. Much as he hated admitting it, he would feel his willpower weaning. It was exhausting. Perhaps surrendering to their command was not so bad of an option as a temporary solution -- at least they would let him be, at least it would bide him time to heal properly without experimental interference on their end. It was obvious he would be used for a favor of sorts, he wasn’t an idiot. Though what exactly that task entailed, he could not guess. The ants had their own established hierarchy of power, this much he knew, did they crave being the Alpha of that order? Or was it desire to upset established order and reform it to the cold one’s preference; at least that one San could somewhat understand. Anything else, if additional options existed, were utterly lost on him. 

All this time he had been holding his breath, bracing himself in nervous anticipation over the machine. Their fingers were fidgeting wires and then, once finished the box’s insides, began swiping at a bottom screen pad. This was it, he realized as he felt a sinking weight drop in the pit of his belly. They were going to activate the sound machine once more and command him; any willpower left in these final moments would be gone in an instant. This would be the final nail in the coffin of submission, breaking down his mentality as they have with his physical form. 

There were an affront of waves which came gentler than from the previous sound machine, had a softer tone to them. But San remained on edge, figuring this was the slow build-up towards the horrible deafening screeches. They didn’t want this to go too fast, to set him off and send him on a rampage. He almost _wishes_ they would because -- despite the incalculable migraine inducing pain -- in a beserk moment with nothing to act on but instinct, there would be no place for fear. Nothing would hold him back and he could easily lash out, cause mass destruction. 

_Do it,_ he almost challenges them with narrowing golden eyes. _I have fought harder when there is nothing left to lose, as opposed to something to gain._

Perhaps he would gain a semblance of respect, inspired from fear. Deep down he knew the chances of that were slim to nonexistent at this point.

The waves were pulsating, although it had yet to reach a point of becoming painful. Annoying, at worse as of right now but nothing more.

And then, a startling follow-up:

↦ _Test_.  
↦ _Testing.  
_↦ _Do you understand me?_

These were not the warbling, incoherent high-pitched cries from the little ants. These terms were understandable. It was the language of the Titans -- arguably one he could call his own, though it more or less a second language learnt from the eons spent on this cerulean marble; the first being amongst himself and his brothers, a birth language that was gradually forgotten save for the occasional phrase or so -- it was _understandable_.

The voice was indecipherable though, belonging to the call of no one familiar. Not the low toned grumblings of the lizard nor the high pitched screeching of the insect; not even the familiar, ferocious cries of the little firebird. Something was off, it seemed… artificial, almost. 

Now, it wasn’t as though the concept of mechanized creatures was nonexistent. In the millions of years spent in descent within the void, conquering and vaporizing planets as they pleased, he remembers running into a fair few; namely cybernetic weapons with a semblance of sentience, capable of adapting and altering voice programs to understand them. Ni had found their very existences to be tasteless and offensive, a mockery of brilliant creatures such as them. He’d lunged for one of their throats and torn out the box which depicted speech. 

Problem was, no such advancements existed on the cerulean planet. Yes, the humans had evidently advanced in the time they lumbered in forced hibernation, but _barely_. Credit was given where it was due, but it would not be much. All they could be credited for was based on mimicking what they lacked: metal contraptions for wings, a contradiction of steel that was somehow weightless and floating underneath the seas in place of gills, fire rocks in place of any sort of formidable weapons whatsoever. 

Never before could they cross the barriers of communication.

↦ _Monster X._  
↦ _Unless you want to remain this title, identify yourself._  
↦ _I can see your reactions.  
_↦ _Tell me you understand this message_. 

It was bewildering, almost admirable in a begrudging sense. Up until the impudent little ant found itself so bold as to give commands. How _dare_ it. He would speak whenever he pleased and to whomsoever he wished! There was falling into submission and then were was acting like a pet, speaking on command from an entitled master; there were low stoops he was desperately willing to fall into line at this point so much as the pain lessened, but this was not one of them.

Monster X… what a strange title. The human mind was a boggling, entertaining little thing. The meaning of the latter portion was lost on him. But the first half, the title of monster. He felt excited pride inebriate in his chest, a warmth like the build-up to lightning. He understood that term well and clear. So, the humans joined the list of those who had bestowed a similar title onto him. An intergalactic reputation that was looking more and more formidable. San realized with delight that his brothers would be cackling once he told them this. It was no secret the humans feared them. They could understand the body language and high-pitched screaming without an issue. But to hear that once more they had earned legendary status, a black mark of fear in all their shared generational stories.

As they rightfully should.

But this belligerent little idiot adorned it almost mockingly, a condescending title. What mighty bold words it was speaking, for someone who reeked of fear. Or was it one of the other two that stood beside it -- the larger lumbering one with a white-knuckle grip on it’s weapon, or another one. An unfamiliar one. Smaller than the other two, utterly wide-eyed. Nervous, yes, but looking at him with reverence as the worshippers of the insect would to her. How odd.

San snarled, letting loose a series of honest thoughts pent-up in the time he’d been kept here. Once the flow was activated, it simply couldn’t stop.

↦ _Impudent little nematode. Unworthy to even pick at my dead scales_.  
↦ _The nerve to speak to me, when you reek of odious fear._  
↦ _Is this what you call an accomplishment?_  
↦ _Your life spans are pathetically limited. Did you waste all of yours with this invention?  
_↦ _How sad._

The one holding the machine went red from sheer embarrassment, at a complete loss for words. The small one was agape, looking back and forth between the machine and him, all the while the black mane on its head was swinging to the movement. The larger one beside them both began to vibrate all of his over body, the sound of hearty laughter escaping his mouth. It received a glare from it’s colleagues in return and promptly, awkwardly hushed himself. Painful as it was, San had to admit that was an all-too familiar scene. 

Hopeful, if only for a moment, San hopes he’s scared them well enough into giving even an ounce of long overdue, owed respect. But hope is a fickle thing for him that fades with each passing day.

The flush on the middle’s one face began to disappear after thinking over his response. It was replaced with something like great displeasure.

↦ _With all due respect, I’m not the one tied down and struggling to put myself back together._

Oh? A colorful choice of words which humored San; a struggle, they thought. True, to some extent, but he wasn’t going to give them any validity.

↦ _A necessary process. It is because we are three: three storms, three minds, three forces. You are but one. A single microscopic head whose only talent is producing calls of high-pitched jibberish._

Beside himself, San slipped a hint of laughter. Obviously, that was a first and unique experience for the three. They seemed startled by the unusual sound alone. This little ant didn’t seem to like that at all.

↦ _I see only one._   
↦ _Where are the other heads, in terms of the_ _regenerating process?_  
↦ _We have footage, we’ve seen you do this before on a smaller scale._ _  
_↦ _It’s your body, only you would know. How long can we anticipate: days, weeks, months?_

Oh, so now the humans were like him. Desperately impatient for the arrival of his brothers. Albeit, for different reasons. He imagined it had something to do with their desire to control all three.

↦ _In due time._   
↦ _Be careful._  
↦ _My words are the kindest of three.  
_↦ _From them, you’ll be lucky to receive their snapping teeth at you. Even if you make poor meals._

He was upsetting them, or at least he hoped he was. He couldn’t be accused of being a liar. If anything, he was doing them all a favor by kindly warning them. If they did not want to take the consideration and learn the hard way instead, they were more than welcomed to. 

Suddenly, before anyone else could do anything to stop it, the larger one seized control much to the protest of the others. It was difficult for him to peer, but San saw what appeared to be the action of the larger one ripping something off from the middle one’s head and attaching it to himself. 

The same artificial voice followed, but the word choice had changed drastically.

↦ _You aren’t even from the true body that got its ass kicked in Boston. All this comes from the head that was ripped off in Isla de Mara’s oceans._  
↦ _A slim odd chance of luck is the only reason you’re here, pal._  
↦ _Oh, and this roof on your head? Is the only thing hiding you right now, the only reason why the big lizard guy hasn’t found you yet._   
↦ _But you’re going to outgrow that soon enough. I hope you’re ready for that.  
_↦ _Might want to re-evaluate on who is the sad one here._

How DARE it speak to him like that! 

Astonishment at stupidity and the outrage came hand in hand, the emotions flaring through San and spreading like a wildfire. He was so appalled he could hardly react at first, as if doubtful that he had processed those words correctly. Miscommunication was always possible with these translation processes, and the unintentional insult or two did no favors for the speaking end. But the largest of the three -- pathetically miniscule, worth less than the effort of a single bite for a meal -- was committing the action of laughter, even when that same headpiece was ripped off and returned to the original owner. 

It meant every word.

It spoke every word of what the cold one thought, of what all were thinking in likelihood. Even with the reeking stench of fear emanating off those who were forced to come closest to him, once away -- this was what they thought. This is what prompted them to take the unthinkable risk of trying to take control; it was not out of fear and the hopes of conquering something magnificent as he. It was determination to domesticate and enslave. 

The humans, with all their unbridled arrogance, had determined they would fear nothing anymore. 

San could not stop himself if he tried, let alone if he wanted to. A ferocious, deafening roar escaped past his mouth and intended towards their direction. Let it damage their fragile hearing, let it cause them to bleed. He hoped the turbulence garnered from his mouth alone might be strong enough at this distance to send them flying.

Unfortunately, it was not enough. The strength of one was never enough. _If his brothers were here_ \-- the thought process had started for the millionth time, and then he remembered; if his brothers were here, this conversation would have never occurred in the first place. Ichi would have said something better, something more eloquent but frightening. Or Ni, consequences be damned, would’ve eaten them alive when they stepped too close. 

The effort had amounted to something though. Besides frightening them and causing them to instinctively plug their ears and shriek, jolting back by a few steps or so, the middle one’s grip had loosened. That was all that it took -- the machine slipped from his grasp, a crashing impact onto the ground.

In the span of a few minutes or so he’d watch this one’s splotched face go from crimson to frigid, translucent white in horror. _Oh,_ that detail was enough. A minor satisfaction, to have a taste of fear as before. Surely, this is what Ichi would want him to do. He had put them in their place and set them back from their technological advancement. 

Good. He didn’t feel much like continuing the conversation anyways after that rude start anyhow.

Yet the words shook him to his core, still. The anger had dampened itself by now, it wasn’t worth it to exert so much energy on it when so little could be done in terms of action. This was all he could do and this was as far as he was willing to go. Lest the shocking and the pain occur once more. Deep down, an intuitive part of him was certain it would follow regardless. 

He watched the three scramble on the floor, snatching up broken pieces and desperately attempting to put back together the sound machine. He could feel something of a smirk placate itself, for in the end he did have the last word; they were the ones that looked sad.

 _I hope you’re ready._ The artificial voice resonated mockingly. A shiver of fear traveled down the length of his spine and even across his winged appendages. It wasn’t as though he had forgotten about the weak king that was stomping about elsewhere on this planet. Ironic, he insisted on remaining with the condescending title of weak king and yet… who was the one healing at a devastatingly slow rate, the process slowed even further by all the pain inflicted from the ants. Who was the one still without his brothers and left to make decisions which he was never prepared for?

Who was the one trembling over inciting the wrath of one of these little ants, let alone not even considering the possibility of having to fight so soon? That said fear of a lone human had made him nearly forget the lizard. 

This suffocating shelter was the only means of protection as of this moment, the only reason he had not been discovered yet. But the healing and growth ensured that this salvation was temporary. 

To make matters worse, he realized with dawning horror, he’d just _screeched_ so loudly he might as well have sounded his siren call and summon all the other Titans while at it.

( Ichi would not be proud of him in the slightest. He would be _furious_ at such reckless stupidity for the practical giveaway. )

Every blistering, obnoxious word from that human had been right. 

And now, the cold one was coming. How, San could not tell. He supposes that he unconsciously memorized the pattern of footsteps in his stride, or maybe it was the way the scrambling three became even sloppier and rushed in their recovery effort. Or maybe there was an unnatural bond present somehow, from whatever was inside his body and the machine which the cold one always carried -- the one that activated the pain. Could it tell when the distance was being sealed between them? 

Maybe it was his own doing, that he had memorized his unnerving _scent_ over anything.

As certain as the cycling patterns of a system, he arrived. The pain promptly followed; on par with the usual, thankfully. San still reacted all the same, twitching and howling. The best way to describe the shock, in his opinion, was as if he were to ever lose control of a storm, for the lightning to blaze wickedly out of control and continually keep shocking and piercing skin or innards -- an impossible notion, of course. If possible, then arguably the most embarrassing way for his kind to die. 

A way which he was beginning to consider being disposed of, once his usefulness had come to an end. It was a disheartening and deeply disturbing idea which he did not want to contemplate over. 

The little ants began chattering to their leader, probably reiterating everything he had said to them in that conversation gone awry. Frost blue eyes glanced upwards at him with an indistinguishable emotion, and San wasn’t too sure if he liked that. It was always hard to tell what the cold one was thinking about, and trying to predict his next action was near impossible. 

San shut his eyes, in hopes of muting out the noise entirely. At this rate, he didn’t want to know what would come next. Though it was certain the sound machine was broken. Perhaps he had bought himself some time; to be frank, he didn’t want to know what the cold one sounded like. 

Everything had faded to a black, incoherent fuzz.

When he awoke, the scene had changed. The chaos had been cleared and the lights were dimmer. Time had passed, and so he must have unintentionally fallen asleep at some point, though he had gained little rest from it. 

He tried settling in once more when a crackling sound came to life, gentle waves like before. He tried ignoring it, assuming it was something to do with the lights or even just a figment of his imagination.

↦ _Hello?_

A single eye shot open, peering down with irk and distrust.

It was the littlest one of the three from before, unassuming and timid, staring up at him with the machine in hand.

.

.

.


End file.
